


Pawfeet

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, GHB is scary, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Petstuck, ahahaha whoops how did my fantroll get in there, also descriptions of abuse, and some pretty freaky mind trickery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 20,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the – problems? issues? things? – that comes with living in Middle-of-Nowhere, Montana is that you just don’t come in contact with trolls. They’re a luxury for them city folk, too frivolous for the honest, down-to-earth, hardworking folks here.<br/>That is, until they start eating your livestock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Loophole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/527502) by [saccharineSylph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saccharineSylph/pseuds/saccharineSylph). 
  * Inspired by [Unwanted Free Ugly Troll](https://archiveofourown.org/works/477092) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



One of the – problems? issues? things? – that comes with living in Middle-of-Nowhere, Montana is that you just don’t come in contact with trolls. They’re a luxury for them city folk, too frivolous for the honest, down-to-earth, hardworking folks here.

That is, until your neighbors discover they can do more with trolls than dress them up and take them to the park. 

“This is a hunter,” says Calvin Bourne, twitching the leash of his new troll. She’s gangly, about the height of a twelve-year-old, with a mop of dark hair and big green eyes.  “She has been bred especially to bring down the largest of game.”

The troll’s ears are twitching as she looks around, surveying your porch, the front of your house, the horses in the pasture. You are not surprised that Cal is the first of your neighbors to own a troll. You’re also not surprised he’d drive over for the sole purpose of showing her off. “Does she talk?” you ask.

“Of course she can,” says Cal. He flicks her horn. “Say something, Pet.”

She doesn’t, just looks up at him reproachfully with round olive-green eyes. Cal flicks her horn again. “I said say something.”

The troll looks down at her paws, and you feel your heart twist sympathetically. “My name’s Roxy,” you offer, crouching down to her level. Admittedly, you don’t have far to bend in the first place. “What’s yours?”

She blinks, swishing her tail. “Nepeta.”

“That’s a very pretty name.”

“Yeah.”

“Say thank you.” Cal tugs on her lead, but doesn’t seem to require a response, because he barrels right into, “I’m leaving. Catch you later, Roxy.”

“See you,” you murmur. He strides off to his monstrosity of a truck, Nepeta trotting along at his side.

You don’t much like Cal.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Gradually, you hear of others besides Nepeta, like the STRONG one the So-and-So’s down the road bought for lifting hay bales and pumping water. Like a draft horse, they explain. Except he can talk.

Right, you think, exactly like a draft horse, and you keep on feeding your ponies and teach snuffling six-year-olds how to ride and all the time you wonder why out of the four siblings it was you who got stuck on Dad’s old ranch, keeping it alive.

(You know why, of course. Because Rose got that scholarship to Brown and Dirk had to move to the city to pursue his career and Dave, well, Dave went with Dirk because that’s what bros are for and besides, he was going to get a hell of a lot better education than he would here. Besides, he was too little at the time to have much say in the matter anyway).

So when eight p.m. rolls around you’re curled up on your shitty couch with a bowl of instant mac-n-cheese (Kraft, not Betty Crocker), staring at the local news without really seeing it. You really want a drink. The only reason you’re sober right now is because you don’t have any alcohol in the house and it’s a fifteen minute drive to the nearest convenience store. If only you had some sort of handy device that let you teleport objects right into your home…

 _Blah blah blah,_ says the TV, _blah blah feral troll kills horse_ –

You blink and focus at the screen and – oh. That is a dead horse all right. Or rather, what is left of one.

You are very glad you keep all your ponies in the barn at night.

On the arm of the couch, your phone buzzes.

undyingUmbrage [uu] began pestering  tipsyGnostalgic [TG]  at 8:37 PM

uu: HELLO ROXY.  
TG: cal  
TG: what up  
uu: NO DOuBT BY NOW YOu ARE AWARE THERE IS A FERAL TROLL ON THE LOOSE.  
TG: its on the news, yeah  
TG: why  
TG: is it yours?  
uu: OF COuRSE NOT.  
uu: A TROLL OF MINE WOuLD NOT DARE DO ANY SuCH THING.  
TG: whyre you pesterin me then  
uu: BECAuSE I HAVE BEEN INFORMED YOu ARE AN ACCOMPLISHED MARKSWOMAN.  
uu: AND WOuLD LIKE TO REQuEST THAT YOu HELP ME BRING DOWN THIS TROLL.  
TG: what  
TG: no  
TG: im not shottin anythin  
uu: BuT DON’T YOu WANT TO?  
uu: DOES IT NOT GET YOuR BLOOD TINGLING TO THINK OF THE THRILL OF THE HuNT  
uu: TO CARESS THE FINELY-CRAFTED STOCK OF YOuR RIFLE AS YOu CHOOSE YOuR TARGET?  
TG: so not in the mood for this rn  


tipsyGnostalgic [TG]  ceased pestering  undyingUmbrage [uu] at 8:45 PM


	3. Chapter 3

There are giant paw prints in the dust around the water trough and it is way too early in the morning for you to be dealing with this.  
  
The rising sun casts long shadows across the yard; it’s already heating up. Sighing, you look at the impression of large troll paws in the dirt. They look like dog prints…except they are wider across than your hand.  
  
Hang on…  
  
Stooping, you hover your spread-out hand over a paw print and _holy shit._ The palm of the paw print is bigger than your _entire fucking hand._  
  
You are very tempted to go grab your rifle and just sit in the barn all day. You had no idea trolls got this big – apparently Nepeta was about as tall as they got. This one, though…well, you can’t tell exactly how tall it is from the footprints but you know it is _damn big._  
  
As you turn the tap on to fill the up the trough – it’s half-empty, the troll must have been pretty thirsty – you try and see where the tracks lead to. They’re not hard to find; in fact, they lead right…to…the barn…  
  
With a squeak, you turn the tap off and run over, nearly eating it as your boot catches on a clump of dried earth. Your ponies – your ponies – oh God they better be okay – the door’s been forced open oh _nooooooo_ –  
  
You rush in expecting to see carnage and destruction but no, it looks quiet and peaceful and it smells of hay and horse and it looks perfectly all right. You hear soft snorts, rustling, and a quiet, husky voice murmuring, “Hey there, pony, pretty pony…”  
  
Eeep.  
  
Holding your breath, you creep closer. One of the stall doors at the far end is swinging open, and you can see the top of a head with dark shaggy hair and curved orangey-yellow horns. There’s also…a tail, snaking out of stall along the floor, ended with a giant tuft of dark hair.  
  
“Hey…” croons the troll. “Hey, pretty girl – aw, no, don’t do that –”  
  
You could be wrong, but that does not sound like a savage monster that rips horse’s insides out. Then again, you _could_ be wrong, so you grab a broom just in case. Holding it in front of you like a weapon, you inch down the center aisle towards the troll –  
  
Abruptly, its murmuring stops, and its tail twitches. You freeze, sucking in your breath.  
  
“Who’s there?” Its voice rasps like a chain smoker’s; you feel a chill run down your spine. “Don’t try and sneak up on me, motherfucker, because I am NOT PLAYING ANY MOTHERFUCKING GAMES…”  
  
You swallow hard. “Um…hi?”  
  
For a terrifying moment, there is silence. Then with a sudden rustling of straw the troll turns itself around and sticks its head out of the stall.  
  
He – you think it’s a he, under the tangled mess of hair – has a scrawny neck and great big ears like a goat’s. His skin is darker than Nepeta’s, and a cooler shade of gray as well.  
  
“H-Hello,” you manage. You can’t help the fact that your voice comes out an octave higher than it should.  
  
The troll’s face breaks out into a huge, lazy grin, baring enormous canines. “Aw, look at you, sister,” he says. “Wasn’t expecting a little girl like you.”  
  
“I’m twenty-four,” you blurt out, but the troll’s not listening, he’s crawling out of the stall and into the center aisle. Dear God, he’s big. It’s a good thing he’s crouching because otherwise his horns would poke right through the roof.  
  
“Sorry I was all up and getting my harsh on earlier,” he says. Wow, now that you can see all of him, you can see how painfully skinny he is. The only covering he’s got is this dirty loincloth, and each of his joints sticks out knobby and scabbed. There are funny lighter patches on his skin too, but you can’t tell if they’re birthmarks or scars or what… “You just have to be motherfucking careful, you know?”  
  
You don’t, not really. But you nod anyway.  
  
“Anyway –” he shifts towards you, and you hold your broom in a defensive position “– what’s your name, sister?”  
  
His face is friendly and open and he’s close enough now that you can see his eyes under the shaggy fringe, they are lazy and  purple. But you can’t ignore the cords of muscle in his arms and the frankly terrifying orange claws at the ends of his fingers. “Roxy,” you manage. “My name’s Roxy.”  
  
“Roxy,” he repeats. “Rox, Roxy, Roxanne. My name’s Gamzee.”  
  
“That’s – that’s a nice name,” you say. The broom is beginning to shake in your hands. “Could you – just – stay here for a little while?”  
  
“Ain’t no problem,” he says, settling back on his haunches. “Just gonna keep talking to my wicked pony sister here.”  
  
“You do that…” you say, backing up. Oh God. Oh God. If you can just get to the door…

**tipsyGnostalgic [TG]** began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 6:32 am

**TG: dirk**  
 **TG: dirk help whthers a huge hass troll in my barn**  
 **TG: dirk**  
 **TG: diiiiiiiiiiirk**  
 **TG: dirk what the fuck to di do**  
  



	4. Chapter 4

You cancel classes for the day, citing “personal matters” as an excuse. You’ve been checking on Gamzee periodically, cracking the door open to peer at him; the third time you did that you found that he was fast asleep, curled up on the floor. He was twitching in his sleep like a dog, tail jerking back and forth, and his lip was pulled up, baring his teeth. Needless to say, you left as silently as possible.

Gamzee, apparently, is nocturnal, because he does not wake up anytime soon. This poses a problem, because you need to feed and water your horses and change their straw and take them outside, but you are terrified of waking him. At about noon your concern for your horses outweighs your fear and you start the daily routine as silently as possible. Things go okay until Nyx decides to greet you with a whinny that is trumpet-blaringly loud.

You wince and freeze, waiting for some sort of reaction, but there is none. Slowly you turn around to see Gamzee only make a sleepy snuffly sort of sound and shift to a more comfortable position.

Noise worries you less after that.

Gamzee’s ribs – and the hollows in between them – prompt you to search through your fridge for something suitable to feed him. Somehow you feel like he wouldn’t appreciate ramen. Or leftover Caesar salad. You’ve got half a packet of hot dogs, left, though, and you warm them up and put them on a paper plate.

“Gam – Gamzee?” You push the barn door open – it’s almost twilight, you want him out before you put the horses to bed – there’s no way you’re leaving them alone with him. “I, uh, have food…”

He’s still asleep, curled up with his back to the door. He’s got what looks to be a bit of a mane on his shoulders, although that could just be his hair, and there’s…well, quite a lot of scars crisscrossing the gray skin of his back. Each vertebrae is painfully prominent.

“Um…” Balancing the plate, you walk slowly towards him. “Hey…are you…awake?”

The only bit of him that moves is his ribs, rising and falling with his breath. You can’t wake him – it’s all too real a possibility that, startled, he will simply snap your arm off. Stopping about three feet away from him, you crouch and put the plate on the ground. He’ll see it when he wakes up.

If he wakes up.

The sun is setting and you’ve got to return your horses to the barn and Gamzee slumbers on. Finally, screwing up your courage, you pick the broom up and inch towards him.

Oh God.

Oh God.

This is going to be terrible.

You prod him very gently in the back with the end of the handle.

Gamzee snorts and twitches. You swallow hard and poke slightly harder, making his tail flop back and forth.

One more – ought to do it – you grit your teeth and –

 _Ohgodohgodohgod_ he’s flipped over and is on all fours and you see snarling teeth and wide eyes and _you are going to die_ –

The two of you stare at each other. He’s crouched, on alert, ears pinned back – you’ve got the broom held in front of you protectively, ready to run.

“Hi,” you squeak.

Under the tangled black fringe, his eyes dart back and forth, reading your face. Then something clicks, and he just _droops_ , his ears, his shoulders, everything. It’s like watching a ferocious tiger turn into a kicked puppy. Literally.

“Aw, shit, sister,” he says. “Did I all up and scare you?”

“A – a little,” you say, making an effort to control your voice. “Not much.” He looks so defeated that all you can do is push the plate of hot dogs towards him with your foot and say, “I brought you food…”

He looks down at the plate and his tail twitches. So do his fingers. Instinctively, you back away from the plate.

Gamzee _pounces_ on the plate, scarfing down the hot dogs like there’s no tomorrow. They are gone within seconds. Scraps are torn off the paper plate.

If he comes back, you’re going to need more food.

Licking his chops – his tongue is purple – Gamzee sits back on his haunches and pushes his hair out of his face with a long-fingered hand. He looks at you, and you get the first chance to really observe his eyes. The whites are…not white, they’re a kind of goldeny-orange which contrasts vividly with the indigo-purple of his irises. His pupils are rectangular, like a horse’s, and he has very long but sparse eyelashes, also like a horse.

You keep staring at each other, and suddenly you realize you don’t know what Gamzee is going to do. You expected him to leave, but what if he doesn’t? What if he camps out in your barn all night instead? What if he hangs around like the stray cats you leave food out for?

“You still scared, little sister?”  he asks softly.

What kind of question is that? “No,” you retort, ignoring the way your hands tighten on the broom handle.

Gamzee frowns, and then he leans forward until he is very close to you indeed. You swallow, petrified – you can smell sweat and dirt and other things not so nice.

“Little girl, little girl,” he croons, low and rough. His breath is cool in your face, and it _stinks._ “Why are you afraid?”

“Get back,” you snap, raising the broom. “Get away from me.”

For a second you are terrified he won’t, but then he just chuckles and slides away. “Don’t get your motherfucking panties all up and in a twist,” he says. “It’s just me.”

You are done. You are so done. This has been the most stressful fucking day of your life and you want it to end and you want to go home to collapse on your bed and cry to Dirk and maybe if you wish hard enough a bottle of Jack will appear on your bedside table as well. “Get out,” you say, and you are appallingly close to tears. “Just get out of my barn.”

For a second you are afraid he will do the sad-puppy thing, because you don’t think you can resist that, even now, but he just sort of smiles understandingly and ambles out in a weird on-all-fours-but-not-really sort of walk. You draw aside to watch him go and God he is so _weird,_ almost human but not quite, what the fuck does a troll even count as anyway, are they like monkeys or…

It’s twilight now. You follow Gamzee out into the yard; now that he’s out of the barn he moves in a sort of graceful amble. For the most part, your ponies don’t react to him, though Hephaestus allows Gamzee to stroke his nose before whinnying softly and trotting away.

“Well.” Gamzee raises his head, sniffs the air, large ears moving back and forth. “Guess it’s time for me to up and get my motherfucking move on.”

“Mmm.” You can’t say you’re sorry to see him go.

“See, look at that,” says Gamzee, turning his face towards where there is still light behind the mountains, remnants of the sunset fading from lemon yellow into inky blue. “How do you just get colors like that?” He grins lazily at you. “Motherfucking miracles.”

Actually…maybe…you can?

You need a drink.


	5. Chapter 5

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 9:12 pm 

TG: and he was literally there the entire day  
TG: just sleeping    
TG: so finally i was like “well shit i gotta get him out  
TG: gotta put these ponies to bed  
TG: and i had to poke him with a boom handle  
TG: *broom  
TG: and it was fucking eterrifying he like snapped  
TG: thought he was gonna eat me   
TT: Roxy.  
TG: seriously man shit was fucking scary  
TG: he’s got theses freaky-ass eyes  
TG: theyre like  
TG: purple  
TG: and orange  
TG: an dhe has square pupils who the hell has square pupils  
TG: well horses do  
TG: and goats  
TG: but yeah  
TT: Roxy.  
TG: anytway and then he like  
TG: idk calmed down or smth  
TG: just got all quiet and sad  
TG: and i fed him hotdogs  
TG: and then after that he got REEEEAAAALLY close up in my face  
TT: Roxy, listen to me.  
TG: what  
TT: You do realize you have come into contact with the troll who is most likely responsible for mauling that horse, and instead of reporting him to the SPCA or a similar organization, have instead allowed him to continue on his merry existence?  
TT: Thus endangering the lives of future horses, including yours.  
TG: aw come on  
TG: i couldnt just  
TG: turn him in  
TG: like you didnt see how skinny he was  
TG: like a little kitty left in a cardboard box in the rain  
TG: sitting there all helpless looking up at passerby  
TG: says on the box “unwanted free ugly cat”  
TG: cant just walk by what kind of heartless monster would you be  
TT: …  
TT: Roxy.  
TT: We are not talking about a helpless infant, we are talking about a fully-grown troll that is over seven feet tall and is fully capable of dismembering a horse.  
TT: And from what you told me, you were as much motivated by fear as by pity.  
TT: He nearly attacked you, and that was purely a reflex.  
TT: What happens if he returns and is less successful at controlling himself?  
TG: aw man dirk :(  
TG: why you gotta be like that  
TT: Because I care about you.  
TT: And because as your older brother I still do feel some responsibility for your safety and wellbeing.  
TT: Even if I gave up any right to interfere in your life by abandoning you for the city.  
TG: :( :( :(  
TG: you didnt abandon me we both you know you had to go  
TG: aint a whole lot of job opportunities out here  
TG: besides someone had to take care of lil’ dave  
TT: Regardless.  
TT: I recognize that I have no right to tell you what to do.  
TT: But I can still offer advice, and my advice is this.  
TT: If Gamzee returns, call the SPCA.  
TT: They’ll have a much clearer grasp of the situation.  
TG: but what if they put him down?  
TT: That is a possibility, yes.  
TT: But remember, he’s already killed one horse.  
TT: He’s not a cuddly pet. He’s feral, and dangerous.  
TG: we don’t know he killed that horse  
TT: Roxy, how many other giant feral trolls do you think are roaming the wilds of Cascade County?  
TT: Roxy?  
TT: Are you still there?  
TG: cal thinks i should shoot him  
TT: Fuck that guy.  
TT: Are you seriously going to listen to him instead of me?  
TG: no  
TG: i just dont see how he thinks thats okay  
TG: seeing gamzee can talk and all  
TT: Calvin Bourne is a deeply fucked up guy in more ways than one.  
TT: Just ignore him, okay?  
TG: kay  
TT: Roxy?  
TT: Are you okay?  
TG: no  
TT: Shit.  
TT: Was it something I said?  
TG: no, its just  
TG: i really wish you were here :(  
TG: i just get really lonely sometimes and i dont have anyone here to talk to  
TG: specially since janey disappeared off to magical crockercorp© land  
TG: life sucks when youve got no friends dirk  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: I know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to name Roxy's town Cascade as a reference and then I found that there is actually a Cascade, Montana and it made everything so much better.


	6. Chapter 6

 

You ended up promising Dirk that if you saw Gamzee again, you’d call the SPCA. This makes you wish more than ever that he doesn’t return; you’re not sure what’ll happen to him if the SPCA comes but you have a feeling he won’t like it.

The universe, however, has it in for Roxanne Margaret Strider-Lalonde, and so it is you open your window one sweltering night for some fresh air and discover that a large dark troll-shaped thing is hunched over the water trough.

For fuck’s sake… You stick your head out the window, squinting through the night to try and identify –

Oh yeah. Gamzee. You recognize the horn shape.

Grumbling to yourself, you cross your arms over your chest – you were about to go to bed, you’re in a tank top and shorts and that’s it – and walk over to flick on the porch light and open your back door. “Gamzee?”

He pulls his head out of the trough with a snurfling snort and whips around to face you. His skin gleams in the orange light of the incandescent bulb – there is water dripping from the hair plastered around his face. When he sees you, his face splits into a broad grin. “Heeeeeeey, sis.”

“I’m not your sister,” you say automatically, and think of Dirk.

His face droops comitragically – his giant ears are comic, his big sad eyes tragic. No…you can’t…the sad puppy thing…

“What?” you snap.

“Ain’t nothin’, little sister,” he says quietly, and then he smiles sunnily. “Ain’t nothin’ at all.”

You narrow your eyes at him – can trolls get high? Do drugs affect them the same way? He’s certainly got a bit of that glazed look to him. Not that you’d know about getting high. Nope. Not at all.

SPCA. Dirk said to call them if Gamzee came back. After all, he’s dangerous. Look at him. His hands are massive, he could snap your neck like a toothpick. He’s got claws like filthy steak knives and shoulders wider than your torso and his smile bares giant ragged fangs. Even while skin and bones he’s enormous; you can’t imagine how terrifying he would be all bulked out. And you know he can be violent. He’s proven that.

Go inside, Roxy, you tell yourself. Go inside and call.

“Any chance you got something for a brother to get his munch on?” Gamzee asks.

When you go inside, you don’t even make a move towards the phone.


	7. Chapter 7

The third time Gamzee comes around, you’ve got a steak and two packs of cold cuts ready for him. By his fifth visit you’re no longer startled to see him curled up on the barn floor. The sixth time, it’s been almost three weeks since he last showed up and you are almost stupidly relieved to see Gamzee. You say stupid, because not only is he threatening to eat you out of house and home but he is making some of your horses – actually most of them – extremely jittery. But you can’t help that you’d been worrying about him, wondering if he’d starved or gotten caught or been shot.

On Gamzee’s seventh visit, you decide it’s time to give him a bath.

“Aw, sister, why?” he says, as you chivvy him onto the concrete slab next to the barn. “Ain’t nothing wrong with how I smell.”

“Ahaha – no, Gamzee, nooo…” Oh God, it’s sweltering – you’re in short athletic shorts and a sports bra and tank top and you’re still dying. You can feel the freckles forming. “And I’m not your sister.”

Gamzee slumps back on his haunches, ears drooping mournfully as he watches you turn the hose on. You’ve  got a bucket and horse shampoo and a sponge, but you’d rather hose Gamzee off before you have to get up close.

You adjust the nozzle, finger on the trigger like you are holding a deadly space gun of cleanliness, ready to blast away all those germs and dirt. “Ready?”

He sighs and scrunches up his face. “Yeah.”

You wrinkle your own nose and open fire.

Water sprays over Gamzee and he flinches, fangs bared slightly. You keep a steady stream going, circling around him to ensure he is properly soaked. Water streams down his back, running in rivulets along his ribs. Soon you feel he is sufficiently soaked, although… his hair. It is so dense and matted it seems to just repel water. Moving in closer, you spray water directly at Gamzee’s shaggy mane, trying not to hit his large ears. You are mostly successful, more because he has his ears flattened against his neck than because your aim is good.

Finally Gamzee is soaked to your satisfaction, though judging by the twitching of his tail, not to his. You shut the hose off and walk over to the bucket, realizing too late Gamzee is bracing himself on all fours like a dog about to shake –

_ACKPTH._

Spattered with water, you glare at Gamzee, who grins sheepishly back. “Sorry, sister.”

Le sigh. You shake water off your hands – you have to admit, if this weren’t Gamzee-dirtied water, you probably wouldn’t have minded, it’s that hot. “Well, don’t get ahead of yourself, I’m not done.”

“No shit?” Gamzee flicks his tail, shedding more water. “Didn’t you just all and motherfucking hose me off?”

“Yes, I did, but there’s more to it than that.” Dragging the bucket over, you pour in some horse shampoo and add water, creating a bucket full of foamy suds. Dipping your sponge in, you approach Gamzee and bite your lip. Right, this is going to be…

Well…interesting.

Gamzee watches you warily as you stand next to him with the sponge. “What you all up and motherfucking doing?”

“I’m going to clean you up,” you say, keeping your voice light and casual as possible. You don’t miss how his eyes narrow and his upper lip tenses. “It’s just a sponge,” you add soothingly. “See?” You hold it out so he can investigate, the foamy water dripping off it and running down your arm. “Just a sponge.”

He sniffs it, nose wrinkling. “All right,” he says, clearly suspicious. “Just don’t up and play any games with me.”

There is enough of a threat behind that to chill you a little. “I won’t,” you say, smiling. “Promise.”

Gripping the sponge tighter – more water runs off it – you reach over and place it on his shoulder. Gamzee’s ears twitch, but otherwise he doesn’t move, so you begin to scrub gently. As he still doesn’t rip your head off, you gain the confidence to scrub harder in larger circles. His skin, when you brush it with your fingers, is extremely rough and quite cool, even accounting for the water. You keep scrubbing, all down his broad back, dipping your sponge back in the bucket frequently, and by the time you reach the middle of his back you can feel a slight…rumbling?

Yes, there is definitely a sort of throbby-vibraty-thing going on under your sponge. Could he – could he possibly be purring?

“Gamzee?”

“What up, sis?” There is definitely a soft throaty jitter to his voice; you giggle a bit and keep scrubbing.

“Are you purring?”

The rumbling abruptly stops. “What?”

“Purring.” You step around to try and look in his face – it’s hard to read his expression under the sopping mop of hair. “Were you?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turns his face away, but not before you catch the purple flush on his cheeks – is he _blushing?_ Okay, that is _precious._

Chuckling to yourself, you continue to scrub him down. You do his back and tail, no problem, and then move to do each arm – his armpits, frankly, are disgusting, lots of black…never mind. Doing his chest is…awkward, and you avoid looking him in the face. Though scrubbing his chest is not nearly as uncomfortable as rubbing down his legs. That only leaves…

You experience a moment of sheer panic as both of you stare at the filthy loincloth covering his unmentionables. There is no way you are going _anywhere_ near that.

Gamzee looks down, then up at you, and grins. “You gonna up and clean down there, too?”

“I –” Your face feels very hot.

Gamzee’s bray of a laugh burst into your ears as he rocks back on his haunches, honking with merriment. Disgruntled and ashamed, you cross your arms over your chest and back up. The fuck is he laughing at you for? You don’t see anything funny.

“What?” you snap.

“You should have seen your motherfucking FACE, sister!” he hoots. “Aw, man…” He keeps laughing while you simply stare at him, tempted to tap one foot like some snooty office girl. At last the absurd honks die down and he grins at you, leaning forward to get closer. “Hey, I wasn’t being serious or anything.”

“I know.” That doesn’t make you any less embarrassed or anything. That is still a thing that happened.

“Aw…hey, sister, little sister, don’t be mad.” Gamzee shifts his weight to his hands, leans even closer to you. “It was just a motherfucking joke.”

You sigh, mouth twisting wryly. Yeah, you know. You can’t really stay mad at him.

“All right,” you say. “But you’re cleaning that bit off yourself,” and you hand him the sponge.

Gamzee chuckles. “All right,” he says. “Go on and turn your back.”

Actually, you end up revisiting the tack room – you’ve been eyeing his massive mane of hair, and decided that all the shampoo and conditioner in the world isn’t going to fix that tangled mess. You need some serious metal combs – and some heavy-duty scissors.

After waiting what feels like long enough, you stick your head out of the barn door and call, “Gamzee?”

“All clear, little sis,” he says, and you trot back around to him. He’s drying off under the sun, bits of foam disappearing off his skin.

“Close your eyes,” you warn, and dump the rest of the bucket of soapy water over his head, careful not to touch his horns. He laughs in the back of his throat, water dripping all around him. Grabbing the hose, you rinse him off and remember to duck before he shakes himself off again.

Right. Well, he looks quite a bit cleaner, gray skin gleaming in the sunlight. The hair, though…

Oh God. The hair.

You begin by shearing off a great deal of it, up until where it gets too matted to really deal with. Then you work in a whole bottle of shampoo and rinse it out, and then you add conditioner and rinse again, and then spend what feels like hours combing out the tangled mess, until your arms ache and your shoulders are burning with sun. Gamzee is remarkably patient through the entire process, wincing a little but with only the occasional hiss or growl – though the couple of times you accidentally brush his horns he tenses up like a live wire. And finally you are able to step back and see your handiwork, his hair hanging damp and relatively clean to his shoulders. As it dries, it’s rapidly regaining its body – you can almost see the fluff happening.

“There,” you say with satisfaction. “All clean.” You even combed out his tail and trimmed his ragged claws. Maybe someday you will be brave enough to go near his teeth.

Twisting around, Gamzee surveys himself with obvious delight. “Aw man, look at this motherfucker getting his squeaky clean all on,” he says. “Motherfucking miracles.” He chuckles and shakes his head, making the hair spring out in all directions.

He’s not going to stay clean for long, you realize – you’re standing in the middle of a dirt field, with the runoff water turning the dirt around you into mud – but even then it’s a definite improvement. “Feel better?” you ask.

“Feel better?” He turns around to beam at you. “Sister, I never felt so motherfucking good in my life.”


	8. Chapter 8

Now that Gamzee’s all cleaned up, the logical next step is to get him some actual clothes. You have your doubts about finding anything big enough for him, but a trip to the local thrift store rewards you with some XXL t-shirts and basketball shorts. Though there isn’t much selection, you have fun picking out t-shirts – the ICP one strikes you as particularly humorous.

Gamzee chuckles over the clothes – you had doubts he’d know how to put them on properly, but he seems to do okay. And thankfully he gets the shirt over his horns okay too – you hadn’t even thought of that.

Like his cleanliness, the clothes are short-lived – the next time you see him, he’s already stained his shirt with…

Well, it’s dark. And kind of  a rusty red-brown.

You’re sure it’s just dirt, though.

That’s all.

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Say ‘moirails.’”

“Ma-rails?”

“Mwah. Rails.”

Nepeta sits on your couch next to you, all earnestness as she attempts to teach you about troll romance. Cal’s gone on some weekend trip, and so when he asked you to petsit Nepeta you said yes because a) she’s a cutie and b) after Gamzee, taking care of her will be a piece of cake.

“Moirails,” you say.

Nepeta nods, and forms a diamond shape with her fingers. “A moirail is always there fur  you,” she says. “They take care of you and keep you safe.”

You look down at Nepeta – her head’s on level with your shoulder, her hair black and glossy and her horns graded bright yellow to orange-red. “Do you have one?”

Blushing olive, she nods. “Equius,” she says, scuffing her paws on the carpet.

Equius, that’s – oh, that’s the Spencers’ troll. You don’t know much about him except he’s used for heavy work. “What’s he like?”

Nepeta tilts her head, lips curving in a little smile. “He’s funny,” she says. “He’s really STRONG and he’s very proper. He likes to pretend he’s supurr tough, but underneath he’s just a big softy.”

God, she really is adorable. “And what about a matespi – matesprit?”

“No…” Nepeta looks down at her knees. “I don’t know any trolls besides Equius.”

“But –” You frown at her. “There’s at least two or three others in town, like the one –”

“I’m not allowed to see them,” she says in a small voice. “I’m not even supposed to see Equius, ‘cept we became moirails.”

Oh…poor thing… Instinctively you put an arm around her; Nepeta tenses for a second before relaxing against your side.

“S’not so bad,” she says brightly. “I’ve still got Equius.”

All the same…

“Nepeta,” you say, “how would you like to meet another troll?”


	10. Chapter 10

 

The sun sets behind the mountains, staining the sky raspberry and ultramarine. Nepeta stands next to you, her hand firmly clasped in yours, tail twitching nervously. “Are you sure he’ll come?” she asks.

You are…mostly. Gamzee’s been dropping by every other night or so, and it’s been two days since his last visit. “I’m sure,” you say. “Are you nervous?”

Nepeta shakes her head vigorously, hair bobbing. “The furrocious lion is never scared of anything!”

Truth be told, you’re the one who’s nervous. Gamzee’s so big, especially compared to Nepeta, and no matter how sweet he is you can’t deny his violent potential.

It’s cool, now, and you can smell dust and grass on the light breeze. Far off, you can see the sporadic lights of cars on the highway. Other than the standard nighttime ambience of distant things moving, it’s very quiet.

The breeze shifts towards you and suddenly Nepeta is all attention, her ears pricked forward – you discovered earlier that she likes ear rubs, and hers are marvelously soft and mobile – and her nose wrinkles.

“He’s indigo?” she says.

Uhh… you think back to the deep purple of Gamzee’s eyes, of the same color in his numerous nicks and scratches. “Yeah,” you say. “Is that a problem?”

“Nah,” she says. “In fact Equius says –”

You never hear what Equius says, because the hulking shadow of Gamzee climbs over the fence at the far end of the pasture. Nepeta stiffens, hissing slightly between her teeth – her claws are digging into your palm.

Gamzee starts loping towards you, but as he reaches the barn he slows down. He’s close enough to the light that you can see his face, and…his eyes are fixed on Nepeta.

You ease Nepeta’s grip off your hand and back towards the door. The two trolls are staring at each other, completely stiff and tense. Gamzee’s tail lashes back and forth slowly.

“Um…” Your voice is too high-pitched. “Gamzee, this is Nepeta…Nepeta, Gamzee…”

Slowly, Gamzee’s face breaks into a smile, but it’s nothing like the gentle easy things he gives you. This is one big razorblade. “Shit,” he says. “What kind of motherfucking miracle do we have here?”

Nepeta doesn’t answer, just twitch her tail like an irritated cat. “Aw, hell…” Gamzee moves towards her slowly, still grinning wicked. “You’re motherfucking _tiny._ ”

“I’m not!” snaps Nepeta. “I’m a furrocious lion!”

Gamzee chuckles and you suddenly realize that this is going the opposite of how you planned. “Um, Nepeta,” you say, drawing up behind her, “maybe you should come inside…”

“No!” She whips around to face you and you are shocked to see her pupils wide and excited, her face alive with energy. “No, I want to stay!” She keeps her voice to a whisper.

“But…why?” You are aware of Gamzee watching the two of you, and smirking. “You’re arguing.”

“Exactly!” She beams, displaying fangs like a cat’s. “We’re hateflirting!”

That’s…it’s a troll romance thing, you remember. Kismets? Kismees? You are fairly sure that involved biting… “Um…are you sure? He’s a lot bigger than you…”

“I’ll be fine,” says Nepeta brightly, and you are suddenly stymied by the fact that a troll about the size and maturity of a teenage girl is more romantically confident than you are.

“Yo!” shouts Gamzee. “You ignoring me or what?” Nepeta whisks around to stick her tongue out at him, and he chuckles lazily. “Aw, motherfuck,” he says. “You ain’t nothing but a little girl.”

“That’s only because you’re way too big,” retorts Nepeta. “You’re like…a freak.”

Gamzee laughs, low and fiendish, and your blood runs cold. “Not gonna argue with you because YOU’RE MOTHERFUCKING RIGHT.”

“Okay,” you squeak. “Nepeta, inside. Gamzee, maybe you should come back tomorrow night.”

Putting an arm around Nepeta’s shoulders, you start steering her inside; Gamzee takes the opportunity to lazily flip her off and she cheerfully returns the gesture.

This is a terrible idea gone horribly wrong.

You want a drink.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone would be wise to heed the archive warnings, especially those worried about the fate of certain characters.

Nepeta is very subdued the next morning; regretting how she’d acted last night, maybe, or scared of what Cal might do if he finds out. There’s not much you can do, as by the time you’ve started to work out what to say to her Cal’s driven over in his monster of a truck to pick her up. Something tenses painfully inside you when he buckles a leather collar and leash around her neck and tugs her towards the truck, and you want to say something but can’t work up the guts to so you just stand in your doorway with your arms folded around yourself and watch him drive away with Nepeta.

You spend most of the day moping around; you just can’t work up the motivation to really do anything not strictly required. If there was a word to describe how it feels, it would be _bluh._

It’s late at night and you’re sprawled on your stomach, staring blankly at the TV, when you hear tapping at your back door. Right. Must be Gamzee.

Grumbling quietly, you lever yourself off the couch and walk over to the door, unlocking the chain and pulling it open. There he is, looming over you, slightly stooped so he can actually see through the doorway. You sigh – there’s not much in you to feel anything other than tired. “What?” you say.

“Nothing, just dropping by to see my favorite little sister,” he says. “Can’t a brother do that?”

“I’m not your sister,” you say automatically.

Gamzee picks up on the latent anger in your voice, and his ears droop. “Hey,” he says, bending further to look you in the eyes. “Something all up and bugging you?”

“What was that last night?” you snap. This is stupid, he should know exactly what’s wrong. “What the _hell_ was that?”

“Huh?” Gamzee looks bemused, and then his expression clears. “Oh, sister, that weren’t nothing…”

“Nothing? You’re trying to start a kismee-whatever with Nepeta when – when –”

“I ain’t trying anything,” says Gamzee. “I just went along with my little cat girl.”

“Exactly!” you say. “She’s a _child_ , what are you even –”

“She still knows her own mind,” says Gamzee quietly – seriously. “Just because she’s little don’t mean she ain’t knowing of what she’s doing. And she ain’t so much of a child as you think.”

“It’s still not right –”

“So?” You’ve never seen Gamzee like this, neither raging nor blissfully at ease. He is all seriousness. “You ain’t her keeper. Hell, you’re not even her owner.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t care about her!” you snap, infuriated – how dare Gamzee suggest you don’t –

“Well,” he says, drawing back a bit. There’s a strange expression on his face, somewhere between amazed and wary and slightly condescending. “Look at that.”

You glare at him. “I don’t see what the big deal is. Of course I care. Who wouldn’t?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” says Gamzee darkly. “But caring –” and he leans even closer to you – “don’t give you the right to tell us what to do. You clean me up and feed me but don’t you EVER think that I would be here if it weren’t my motherfucking want to.”

His deadly intensity chills you, and you nod mutely. Gamzee tilts his head, reading your expression, and his face softens.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Hey, little sister, I ain’t mad. Okay? I ain’t mad…”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding, and – oh _fuck_ why are there tears in your eyes. You wipe at them hurriedly, aware that Gamzee is watching you with an expression that is far, far too gentle.

“It’s all right,” he says softly, and reaches out, and suddenly somehow your hands are absolutely engulfed by his. His skin is cool, dry and very rough. One of his thumbs brushes across your wrist – which looks impossibly thin and fragile in his grasp – and his claw catches on your wish bracelet.

“I know,” and you manage to smile up at Gamzee a little. His answering beam stretches his whole face.

“There,” he says, and lets go of one of your hands to briefly touch your cheek with his thumb. “Now that’s an expression I like to see.”


	12. Chapter 12

It is weeks in the future, but not many, when you are awakened from slumber by…by what? All seems dark and silent…You check your phone – it is 2:23 in the morning. Groaning, you flop over and try to go back to sleep when –

“ _Roxy._ ”

You start at the hoarse whisper, instinctively pulling your sheets over your chest. Petrified, you lay still in bed, desperately hoping Freddy Krueger isn’t standing outside your window. _Don’t talk,_ you tell yourself. _That’s how everyone dies in the horror movies. They can’t keep their mouth shut._

“ _Roxy,_ ” insists the voice, this time accompanied by tapping at your window. “Hey, little sister. It’s me.”

“Gamzee, what the _fuck!_ ” you shriek, sitting upright and throwing off the sheets. “Are you trying to scare me to death?”

There is silence, long enough for you to get worried. “Gamzee?”

You wait for a reply, sitting in the dark, your heart pounding. Something’s wrong, you can feel it…

“Oh, sister, little sister,” you hear him say, low and quiet. “You ain’t gonna believe what I up and did…”

Fuck.

Cold panic swirls inside you and you swing your legs out of bed, groping habitually for your phone. Your eyes have adjusted to the dark enough that it’s no problem to grab a hoodie and sneakers and run out of the room. There’s a nightlight in the hall, but when you get to the kitchen you turn the lights on and _ow ow ow that is bright._

Squinting, you make your way to the back door – through the glass on top you can vaguely see movement. You unlock and open it, letting light from the house spill outside – Gamzee winces, eyes screwing shut.

“Sorry it’s bright,” you say apologetically. “Gamzee – what?” He’s splattered with what looks like blue paint or ink, navy-ultramarine, and there’s something off with his body language – it’s defensive, hostile, on edge. “Gamzee, what’s happened?” Using the door frame as support, you get your feet into your Vans without looking away from him. “Gamzee?”

“What happened?” he echoes, voice raspy. He looks straight at you and his pupils are pinpricks. “You want to know WHAT MOTHERFUCKING HAPPENED?”

You’re thinking you don’t. “Gamzee…”

“I spilt his self-righteous blue blood is what motherfucking happened,” he growls. “I TOOK THAT BLUE LIKE THE NIGHT SKY AND SPREAD IT OUT ON THE GROUND FOR ALL TO SEE…”

There’s only one person you know who actually has blue blood.

“You killed _Equius_?” you gasp.

Gamzee snarls – his hands are bunched in fists at his side. “Pompous little motherfucker had no right telling me we should be slaves, ALL UP AND THINKS HE OWES A DEBT TO THESE OPPRESSORS, had to stop the shit spewing from his ugly little maw…”

“You killed _Equius!_ ” you very nearly scream. “Gamzee, he was Nepeta’s _moirail!”_

“Was he?” Gamzee looks at you – and _smiles._ “Motherfucking RIGHTEOUS.”

“No it’s NOT! Gamzee, he was her moirail, they were friends, he was all she had, you can’t do that YOU CAN’T –”

“It was his own motherfucking fault,” Gamzee growls. “He deserved it.”

“That still doesn’t – you can’t _kill_ people, Gamzee!” You can feel tears welling up and you are desperate and scared and impossibly betrayed. “Oh my God…” Staring at the ground, you push your hands against your forehead in a vain effort to piece your world together. “How _could_ you?”

“I dunno…” Gamzee’s voice shifts, becomes lower and quieter, and you look up at him. He’s staring somewhere over your head; you turn quickly but you don’t know what he’s looking at, unless it’s the kitty clock over the door to the living room. “Can’t tell you what I’m feeling when I get my motherfucking harshwhimsy on…”

“Your _what?_ ”

“Don’t know what I am, when it get all clear as night up in my head, all I know is they’re singing to me, those stars keep singing _FREEDOM FREEDOM FREEDOM_ and if there’s one little blue motherfucker in the way who is he TO STOP ME –”

“Gamzee, Gamzee, stop –” he’s scaring you, you’re scared, you don’t know what’s happening but you want it to end –

“– and I can paint the ground with that fine color in his veins but then the singing stops and it’s just me all alone and –” his face is broken now, desperate “– and there’s miracles all over my hands but they don’t smell right, they’re not the kind I want and it don’t make sense _Roxy –_ ” before you can move he’s seized both your shoulders in his hands, and he’s clinging but it’s not a threat, it’s a plea “– _make it stop –_ ”

He’s pulled you outside, onto the back step, and you look up into his face that is so different from yours and yet _so familiar_ and the hurt and bewilderment there is not a child’s, it’s a man’s. So what else can you do but cup his face in your hands as best you can and say, “ _It’s okay._ ”

Gamzee stares at you, desperate and forlorn. He’s shaking slightly, and his breath scrapes over his throat. “Baby girl…”

“Shh, sweetheart, shh, it’s okay,” and you stand on tiptoe and pull his head down so you can kiss his forehead, his skin and strands of hair pressed cool and rough against your lips, and suddenly you find yourself submerged in his embrace. Your face is pressed against his shirt and you smell troll musk and sweat and coppery blood. One of Gamzee’s arms is a weight across your shoulders and his other hand is spread across the small of your back, comforting, anchoring. You don’t understand what you’re doing here – Gamzee has come to you fresh from a kill, there is blood seeping from his clothes to yours – and yet you are comforting him like he is the victim. Nepeta comes to mind again and you shiver, she will be devastated if moirail-ness is as strong as she says it is.

Gamzee sighs, low and shaky, and cool air washes over the side of your face. The weight of his head pushes against you as he drops his head to your shoulder and his ear, velvet-soft, is pressed against your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I ain’t meaning no harm…”

“ _Gamzee…_ ” Yes he is, of course he is, he meant to kill and you both know that. But you don’t break the embrace. “I wish I could help, I wish I could make it stop…”

“Oh, sister…” He sighs again. “You don’t even motherfucking know…”

You wrap your arms around Gamzee as far as they will go – God, his ribs are like rebar under your hands – and settle against him. His heart throbs like a drum, loud but slow, and as his arms tighten around you he makes a happy-sad sound deep in his throat. Any last resistance you had is melted, and you can’t help groaning slightly. What are you _doing_ with your life…

“Rox?” Gamzee’s thumb skates across the back of your neck.

“I don’t understand…” You’re not even sure how to explain it any further, but Gamzee seems to figure it out anyway.

“Us?” He shifts so you’re pulled into the curve of one arm. “Ain’t nothing not to understand.” He forms a V with his first two fingers on his other hand and you match the gesture, forming a diamond shape. “Sometimes miracles happen.”

“No, no…” You stopped believing in miracles somewhere between Mom dying and the day you realized you couldn’t afford college. “No, they don’t.”

“And how are you all knowing that?” says Gamzee, smiling. He taps your nose gently with one huge finger. “You got so many years in you, little sister, that you can say a thing like that?”

“Do you?” you counter. You’ve been wondering how old Gamzee is…

“Aw, hell, maybe not,” he says, shrugging.

“Then how come _you_ can say that?”

He just smiles gently down at you. “Motherfucking miracles.”

The front of your shirt is all smudged with ultramarine.

“But Gamzee, that doesn’t –” You pull away from him and press the heels of your palms to your forehead, desperate for some sort of stable ground. “That doesn’t change the fact that you’ve _killed_ Equius, and no amount of miracles is going to bring him back –”

He looks down and away, shaggy hair obscuring his face. The tears are coming back, you can feel them, shaky and threatening to overwhelm. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do. Your world is falling apart and you have _no idea what to do._

“Look,” says Gamzee, quiet and rough. “I fucked up, okay? I know that. But I don’t see any good in saying sorry and I don’t see any way of making it better. So I’m not intending to dwell in what I done wrong. And I ain’t asking for you to all up and judge me either.”

“I’m not judging,” you murmur. “I just… _augh._ ” You can’t think. “I’m just so tired…”

His face softens, and he brushes a strand of hair out of your face. “I know,” he says quietly. “You and get your sleep on. There’s time enough for worrying tomorrow.”

“But what are we gonna _do?_ ”

“Do?” Gamzee, your Gamzee, stupid careless Gamzee, is completely unconcerned. “That ain’t for me to decide. And what _you_ can do –” he taps your nose again “– is get some shuteye.”

You don’t want to leave him. You want to sleep, but you don’t want to leave him. “Gamzee…”

Stooping, he kisses the top of your head very, very lightly. “Good night, little sister.”

It takes all your willpower to step back inside and shut the door. And once you do, you very nearly burst into tears.


	13. Chapter 13

Cal Bourne stands on your doorstep, shotgun in hand and livid with anger.

“Have you heard?” he says. “The Spencers’ troll was killed last night!”

You’ve heard.

If you squint, you think you can make Nepeta out in the back seat of his truck.

“I’ve heard,” you say, leaning against your doorframe. You barely slept last night, and you can feel it in the dragging of your eyelids, the fever-fuzziness of your head, the sand in your limbs. “It’s horrible.”

“It has to be the feral troll,” he snaps. The sun gleams on his shaved head. “This is inexcusable. It has to be stopped!”

Despite the warmth of the day, goosebumps rise on your skin. “And by stopped, you mean…”

For an answer, Cal pats his shotgun. “The only way to make sure is to put a bullet through its brain.”

You feel sick to your stomach. “No…Cal, why?”

“Because it is a menace! What if it had gone for my Pet? This troll is dangerous and vicious and –”

“He has feelings too,” you snap.

Cal blinks. Then he laughs shortly. “It’s just an animal.”

This stings enough to bring tears to your eyes. “No, he’s not, you haven’t talked to him, you don’t even KNOW –”

“I know it’s a killer,” he says brusquely. “I know it’s got to be put down before it kills any more horses or trolls. And I was going to ask _you –_ ” he points the shotgun at you “– if you would assist me, but clearly that’s not going to happen.”

“Damn straight it’s not,” you say. “Now get the fuck off my porch.”

Cal narrows his eyes at you. “Don’t push me, Lalonde,” he says. Maybe he doesn’t realize it, but he’s still got his gun pointed at you. “I am not a patient man.”

Nah, he knows it completely.

“Warning understood,” you say dully. “Now please leave.”

Nostrils flaring as he inhales, Cal looks down at you, appraising. He takes his time, and he’s glaring down at you from deep-set eyes, but you’re too tired to be offended. You just want him to go.

“Fine,” he says at last, and wheels around.

He’s about to walk off when you say “Equius was Nepeta’s moirail.”

“Huh?” Cal looks back at you, brow furrowed. His eyebrows are so pale and sparse he might as well not have them. “Who?”

“Equius? The troll who died?” You cannot believe this man, actually cannot believe him. “He was Nepeta’s moirail.”

“Mwah-rail.” Cal sneers the word. “So?”

“So they were _together,_ they were best friends, they were…” Your voice trails off as you realize he is listening to you with nothing but contempt. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

He snorts. “No. Should it?”

 _Yes,_ you want to say, but the word dies in your throat.

Cal hooks his thumbs in his belt loops – his belt buckle is large and circular and ornate – and looks down at you. “Right,” he says, and turns to go. He’s halfway to his truck when he turns back and calls, “A warning. As a _friend._ ”  You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t get attached to this feral troll.”

You wait until his back’s to you to flip him off – as he climbs in the driver’s seat, you look to Nepeta, but you can barely see her at all.

 

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]at 9:28 am

TG: dirk id ont feel good  
TG: *dont  
TG: dirk  
TT: Not now, Roxy. I’m busy.  
TG: :(  


timaeusTestified [TT]  ceased pestering  tipsyGnostalgic [TG]  at 9:36 am


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, this is where the gore tag starts being relevant.

Gamzee comes back that night, at twilight as usual, and for a brief moment the tight knot in your chest loosens. But then you see how slowly he’s walking, how everything about him is subdued, and your heart sinks.

You open the back door as he approaches. “Hey,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer, just sighs and holds out his hand. You immediately take it, feeling his long fingers wrap around yours. Gamzee doesn’t let go, just keeps hold of your hand, and oh God you ache so much for him you might just burst.

Finally Gamzee sighs again, and speaks. “How’s my little sister?” he asks quietly.

“I’m good,” you lie. “You?”

He just shrugs and looks away. Oh, your poor boy… You squeeze his hand comfortingly, as much as you can with your fingers engulfed in his.

“What can I do?” you ask.

Gamzee looks down at you and he’s deathly serious, his face is blank but there’s something intense behind it all the same. “Saddle up one of your ponies,” he says. “I’m taking you for a ride.”

A nervous tremor flutters in your stomach. “I – I can’t,” you say. “They’ve all been ridden today, they’re tired, they need to rest…”

Gamzee blinks. “Ain’t no problem,” he says. “You can just ride on my back.”

You swallow. “Um – okay…” You’re sure he can carry you, but that’s not what you’re worried about. “Where are we going?”

He smiles a little, and even that tiny curl of the lips makes him seem more _right_ , like he’s not your Gamzee without his habitual smile. “I figure it’s about time you meet the motherfucking family.”

“Oh.” It is all you can think to say.

He pulls you a little closer, bends down to look in your face. “Scared, sister?” he asks.

You shake your head, but it’s a transparent lie, and he laughs gently.

“Ain’t nothing to be scared of,” he says, and swiftly kisses your forehead. Before you have time to marvel at that he’s added, “Nah, wait, there is. But I’ll take care of you.”

You don’t understand what’s going on. “Gamzee, what are you talking about, _who_ are you talking about, what’s happening –”

He takes your face in his hands _very carefully_ , cradling it, one broad thumb pressed against your lips. “Shh, little sister, shh,” he says. “All shall be explained in motherfucking time.”

You find that vaguely reassuring. “Okay…”

“Now up you get.” He turns around and crouches, holds his hands flat so you can use them as steps to clamber onto his back and link your arms around his neck. Blegh, his hair is everywhere – you make a face and spit some out of your mouth.

Gamzee puts his hands under your thighs, hefts you a little higher on his back. “Comfy?” he asks.

You wouldn’t say that, not necessarily, but you’ve got a reasonably secure hold and you’ve managed to get most of his mane out of your face. “Yeah.”

He chuckles and stands in a movement so fluid you don’t understand it – one minute you’re close to the ground and suddenly you’re not. “Then let’s motherfucking go.”

And he’s running, and you find that what looked like a smooth easy lope in reality feels very bouncy and jolty indeed. It’s not as bad as, say, trotting on a horse, but you’re not exactly gliding along either.  He is fast, though, and clears the barbed wire fence at the end of the pasture in an easy leap that temporarily evaporates your insides.

Behind your ranch is…not much of anything, just a lot of empty land and scrub. Beyond that, though, is quite a bit of mountains, and it is these that Gamzee is heading for with both speed and surety. It’s cold, with the speed of his travel, and he’s not warming you up much either. You wish you’d brought a jacket.

Gamzee’s chest expands under you, muscles bunching, and you can hear him panting evenly. You twist your head for a better look at his face and he’s got his mouth open, fangs bared, tongue out slightly.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He tosses his head back, his ear brushing your cheek, and laughs. “Sister, I’ve never been motherfucking better,” and suddenly he’s running _faster._ And that’s when you realize what you thought was a grimace was a smile, that he’s breathing in the wind for the sheer joy of it, and if you need alcohol to shut your brain off and quiet the incessant tangle of fears and worries all he needs is a space to run.

At least for a little while, anyway.

After what feels like forever Gamzee nears the hills and slows his pace. He’s following a more circuitous path now, winding through trees and rocks and little bits of hill. It’s much darker out here, with only a little starlight to light the way. “Gamzee?”

“Yeah?” He’s navigating through… well, something.

“How do you know where you’re going?”

He chuckles. “I got eyes much stronger than those pretty little peepers of yours, sister,” he says. “But I ain’t even needing them. The nose knows,” and he chuckles again, deep and sandpapery in his throat.

Of course he’s got a better sense of smell than you, and suddenly you are terrified. You don’t know Gamzee, not really, and he’s much bigger and much stronger than you and you have let him just carry you off into the woods at night with absolutely no way of being able to get back by yourself. He’s going to kill you and rape you and eat you and oh God _Dirk, you were right, Dirk I should have listened to you, Dirk I’m sorry…_

“Down,” you gasp.

Gamzee doesn’t pause in his jogging, but his ears twitch. “Whatcha say, sister?”

“Put me down,” you gasp. “Down, down, now –”

“Whoa – hey, sister, what’s the problem –”

“Down!”

He stops and swings you off him and as you hit the ground you stumble oh _shit_ you don’t want to fall not now not now. Your heart is thudding and every breath jumps sharply in your throat. Gamzee reaches for you and you flinch out of reach.

“Hey, sister, girl, shhh, calm down –” croons Gamzee, but he’s not helping. You can feel the hysterics threatening to burst out of your throat.

“No!” you all but shriek. Your heel catches on a rock and _whoops_ OW yep you are now on your ass on the ground. It’s dark, but your eyes have adjusted, and my God Gamzee is massive, he’s looming over you like some sort of dark menace, starlight gleaming off his horns. You’re gonna die you’re gonna die you’re gonna _die_ –

“Roxy, Roxy, shoosh, _shoosh –_ ” And he moves, quicker than you can, and has pressed his broad palm to your cheek with a noise rather like _pap._

Whether it’s because of the calming effect of the gesture or the fact that his thumb is smashed against your lips, you do in fact _shoosh._ You blink as he crouches in front of you, hand still on your face. “Baby girl,” he says quietly, “what is motherfucking _wrong_?”

“How do I know,” you manage, gulping, “that you won’t just – just – I don’t know, _e-eat me_ or –”

He throws back his head and laughs, claws faintly scraping against your scalp. “Oh, baby girl, baby girl –”

“I’m not a baby!” you snap. “I’m an adult and know exactly what’s dangerous, Gamzee, don’t _lie_ to me –”

“Hey, hey, I ain’t lying –”

“How do I know?” you demand. “How can I _trust_ you?”

It’s too dark for you to make out his expression, but his ears droop. “You don’t trust me?”

“Not right now I don’t. You won’t even tell me where we’re going!”

His shoulders droop as well. “Aw, shit, sister…”

You’re ninety-five percent sure he’s doing puppy eyes, even if you can’t see them. You refuse to be swayed. “Why should I trust you?”

Slowly, he withdraws his hand and sinks back onto his haunches. “Well, motherfuck… I trust _you_ , don’t I?”

This throws you. “You – you do?”

“Shit, yeah,” and light glints off his teeth as he smiles. “Sister, every time I show up at your back door I know it could be my last night as a free troll. You think I ain’t aware you could call some stank-ass motherfuckers up to lock me away? You think I ain’t motherfucking knowing that you and twenty other sonsabitches in your little town couldn’t put a bullet through my brain? But I still come back, my fine-ass little sister, because I trust that as long as you’ve got my diamond you won’t do anything to motherfucking hurt me.”

You find yourself being unwillingly reassured by his throaty little monologue, even if you don’t understand all of it. “Got…your… diamond?”

He forms a V with his fingers, and this time you don’t need prompting to match it. “Moirails, little sister,” he says. “Spades for my kismesis, hearts for matesprit mine, give clubs to my auspistice, and for my moirail diamonds fine.”

That’s kind of sweet, actually. You can feel yourself starting to trust him and no, _no_ , you shouldn’t be doing this…

“Heyyyy…” He chuckles softly, nudges your foot with one of his giant paws. “I ain’t never going to hurt you. Promise.”

Isn’t that what they all say?

Screw it. You’re done with worrying. You’re done, you’re done, you’re done, you don’t want to care anymore, Gamzee trusts you and you’re sick of not being able to trust back…

“Okay,” you say. “Okay, I believe you, just…where are we going?” This would be so much easier if you were drunk…

Grinning, Gamzee takes your face in both hands, bringing his face close to yours. His breath is cool and smells of troll and morning breath and something sharply sweet. “I told you, little sister,” he says. “I’m taking you to see the motherfucking family.”

And without further ado he slings you onto his back. You barely have time to wrap your arms and legs around him before he’s slinking through the forest again, heading steadily upwards into the hills. There’s still quite a bit of nerves thrumming through you but what the hell, this is _fun,_ more exciting than the last ten years of your life…

Gamzee turns sharply towards a particularly craggy bit of cliff and – oh shit, that is definitely a cave, that is definitely a darker than normal opening in the rock face. Gamzee slips into it without a moment’s hesitation and wow you can’t see a thing. You can feel that you are going down a very steep slope, though.

“Gamzee?” you whisper, and feel him chuckle underneath you.

“Don’t you worry your head none,” he says, and brushes your wrist with his fingers. “We’re almost there.”

True enough, you can start to see a glimmer of light ahead of you. Gamzee reaches the bottom of the slope, turns a corner and now the light is definitely not as faint, it’s whitish and enough for you to see that the floor Gamzee is picking his way across is not smooth at all, but rough and uneven as the ceiling. He squeezes through one bit and makes another turn and then –

Oh.

Okay.

You’re in a cave, a very rough and irregular one, with all sorts of rocks jutting out of the floor and walls and ceilings. The rocks are casting shadows everywhere, because the light is coming from a battered industrial-grade construction lamp that is plugged into an equally worn generator, which is a surprise – you’d somehow been expecting torches. Other than the puttering of the generator, it’s quiet. You can see nests, though, piles of clothing and possessions which are as varied as the trolls that made them…

Speaking of trolls.

There’s a troll moving towards you, a male with floppy hair and horns like handlebars. Gamzee chuckles and lets you slide off his back, though you stay standing behind him. This other troll is easily as scarred as Gamzee, if not worse; one of his ears is missing a huge chunk. His walk is odd and stiff and limping, and he has to hold on to rocks to keep himself standing.

“Gamzee?” he asks.

“Heyyy, Tavbro,” says Gamzee casually, but it sounds a tiny bit strained. “This is my Roxy.” He tugs on your hand so you’re standing next to him.

Tavbro’s eyes, large and brown, sweep down you, and you think you see understanding light his face. With effort he moves closer to you – he’s shorter than Gamzee, and stockier. “Um, hi,” he says, tail swishing nervously. “I’m Tavros…”

“Hi, Tavros,” you squeak.

You glance up at Gamzee – he’s got his gaze fixed on Tavros with a sort of greedy fascination. Oh. So that’s how it is. You’re not sure if you should be jealous or not.

“I’ve, uhh, heard a lot about you from Gamzee…” says Tavros, and you wonder what exactly he’s heard. Does he know you’re moirails?

“All good, I hope,” you manage.

Laughing, Gamzee tucks you against his side. “Shit, sister, would I say anything else?” His attention is still very much fixed on Tavros, though. “Is everyone else out?”

“Yeah,” says Tavros. “Except, uhh, me and Broker and, uhh, _him._ ”

“Maybe that’s better,” says Gamzee. You jump as his tail twitches and catches you across your calves. “Less motherfuckers asking questions. Is he awake?”

“I, uhh, think so.” Tavros frowns at the two of you. “Are you going to take her to see him?”

“Hell yeah.” Gamzee grins again. You don’t know who _he_ is but you are getting scared again. “Got some motherfucking explaining to do.”

Tavros laughs nervously, rubs behind one ear. “Hehh, okay,” he says. “If you think he’s okay with that…”

“Shit, Tavbro, he loves me,” says Gamzee, playfully backhanding Tavros in the chest. “Don’t you worry none.” And tugging on your hand, Gamzee starts to navigate through the piled-up rocks.

“Good luck,” calls Tavros after you, though you are so concentrated on not falling that you barely hear him. It’s one thing for Gamzee, whose giant paws are mobile enough that he can get a good grip on the boulders. You, with your baby-sized feet and flat-soled sneakers, are not doing as well.

At the other side of the cave is another cleft in the rock. Gamzee clambers in and helps you up after him. “Gamzee, who – who are we seeing?” you ask.

Gamzee shrugs as he leads you down the passage, which is smoother than the rest of the cave. “I ain’t sure I want to be giving you any manner of blasphemous impressions,” he says. “I’d rather let him speak for himself.”

Blasphemous? Do trolls even have religion? “But just…is he a troll? What’s his name?”

Gamzee sighs. “Yeah, he’s a troll. None of us is knowing what his real name is. He styles himself Great Honking Bastard, but we ain’t about to call him that, ‘specially not to his face.”

GHB for short, you think. Huh.

At the end of the passage is a heavy velvet curtain, obviously salvaged but still in decent shape. It’s hard to see color in the dim light but you’re guessing black or blue. Gamzee stops next to the curtain and cocks his head, one ear angled to listen better. His hand is painfully tight around yours, but whatever he hears must not be too bad, because he says, “Dad?”

_Dad???_

From behind the curtain comes a deep rumbly rasp of a voice, gutted like a mud road after trucks. “Who is it?”

“It’s me. Gamzee.”

“ _GAMZEE!”_ booms the voice. “What the motherfuck are you waiting for, GET YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASS IN HERE…”

Every bone in your body wants to run away. But Gamzee pushes through the curtain, pulling you inexorably with him.

This room is smaller, and darker, and lit by a bowl full of burning embers and a string of Christmas lights. You can’t really see the floor under all the tattered rugs, and you smell sweat and that same sharp sweetness from Gamzee’s breath.

“ _SO_ ,” rasps a voice, and you nearly jump out of your skin.

Seated on the right side of the room, sprawled across a throne of broken furniture and piled rugs, with dark crusted multicolors on the wall behind him, is a _freaking massive troll._ He’s maybe a foot taller than Gamzee but probably twenty times bulkier – his legs like tree trunks, his arms huge and beefy, his neck thicker than your entire body. It has to be, in order to support what must be the colossal weight of his enormous curving horns and monstrous mass of tangled black hair. He looks down at you from a face eerily like Gamzee’s, lip curling back from his fangs, and the light glints off his eyes. _“SO._ ”

“H-Hi,” you manage. “I’m Rox –”

“I KNOW WHO YOU ARE,” booms the GHB. “Gamzee has told me everything about you…”

Your mouth clamps shut. Gamzee is quivering next to you; you’d guess in fear, but a longing whine slips out of his throat.

The GHB chuckles bass. “Come here,” he says, and Gamzee bolts to crouch at the GHB’s knee, face strained upward. The GHB slips a hand under Gamzee’s chin, caresses his cheek, ear, hair, fingers sliding along Gamzee’s horns, and Gamzee croons in pleasure.

You feel strange, voyeuristic, watching him like that, and you clasp your trembling hands behind your back. Something in this room is giving you the heebie-jeebies like nothing else tonight has; you’re breathing fast and your heart is pounding in your throat and you keep seeing things out the corner of your eye. You don’t think you’re going to die, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to fear…

Gamzee’s croons have subsided into a low purring; he’s got his head on the GHB’s knee and is looking at you – or looking through you – with a blissful expression, the GHB scratching lazily around Gamzee’s horns. “So you’re the girl what my boy here gave his diamond to,” he says.

“Yes,” you squeak.

“Hmmm,” he rumbles. “You’re the one who fed and sheltered him and cleaned him up good…”

Gulping, you nod.

“Well…” The GHB sighs, still absentmindedly fondling Gamzee’s ear. “You care for him, you trust him, and yet you ain’t understanding why he UP AND KILLED A TROLL…”

“No,” you manage. “I don’t.”

“I know,” rumbles the GHB. “That’s why I had him bring you here. So you can get your motherfucking wicked knowing on.”

“O-Okay.”

“Sit,” he commands, and sweeps his tail across a patch of carpet. You gingerly lower yourself to the indicated spot and – oh God, it stinks of B.O. and – and – is that weed?

“ _BROKER,_ ” booms the GHB, and what you thought was a pile of rags or pillows next to the GHB shifts, pushes itself into a sitting position. It’s another troll, and the second you see him you feel nauseous, because never have you seen anyone, human or troll, who is more ruined. His nose is crushed, completely smashed in, and his horns are just visible as rusty jagged stumps. Half his tail is gone, and his ears are ragged, and the scars marking his throat and abdomen are truly horrible.

“This is Broker,” says the GHB, laying a massive hand on Broker’s head. “We found him all but dead in a field. He can’t tell us what happened or why, because the sons of bitches what did this to him cut his throat. He ain’t the first one I seen like this, and he won’t be the motherfucking last.”

You feel physically ill.

“Tavros they kept to fight other trolls in a ring,” continues the GHB. “He got crippled and the bastards would of dumped him in as bait ‘cept he got the guts and the smarts to fake his own motherfucking death. They threw him on the rubbish heap and he had to crawl away with a broken back before he got taken out with the trash.

“Gamzee was a Christmas present they got tired of by Easter. Kiddies were bored with their new troll and Mommy and Daddy couldn’t be bothered to find him a home, so they left him on the side of the motherfucking road. He didn’t have a motherfucking clue about how the world works but he had to learn fast because it was that or starve to death all on his lonesome. And all because some bastards what were rich enough to do him right didn’t think he was worth the effort.”

Drawing your knees up to your chest, you push your face into your hands and realize they’re shaking. You can’t, you can’t, you want it to stop…

“We are the rejects,” growls the GHB relentlessly. “We are the abused and abandoned, the unwanted and the rejected. We have been beaten, kicked, starved and burned by you and your kin, and YET –” his voice suddenly increases in volume, echoing off the cave walls “– WHEN MY BOY, YOUR MOIRAIL, LOOSES HIS MOTHERFUCKING COOL AT A SNIVELING EXCUSE FOR A TROLL WHAT BELIEVES HE SHOULD BE A SLAVE, _YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO ASK HIM WHY…”_

You blurt a terrified sob, you’re shaking, limbs drawn protectively around you, and Gamzee finally rouses himself to push away from the GHB. “Whoa, hey, Roxy…” he says, sounding strangely soft and smooth after the GHB’s rasping. “You okay?”

Shaking your head, you clap your hands over your mouth because you are sure if you don’t you are going to scream. Gamzee bounds over to you, looking in your face with obvious concern. “Roxy, babe, shhh, it’s okay…”

“TAKE HER OUT OF HERE,” says the GHB, nearly bringing you to tears. Gamzee scoops you up without hesitation, carrying you out of that hellhole and into the main cave which is not much better but at least it’s light and it doesn’t stink of sweat and unholy things and, and…

“Shhh…” Gamzee cradles you against his chest as you cling to him and try not to break down completely. You’re shivering uncontrollably and trying not to cry but it’s hard, the tears keep bursting through…

Pulling you closer, Gamzee tightens his grip and plants a kiss on your forehead. You wish he was warmer but at least he’s real, at least he’s solid…

“Uhh, what’s, wrong with her…” You hear the heavy scraping sounds of Tavros hauling his way towards you, but they seem to be coming through a fog. “Was it _him_?”

“Motherfucking chucklevoodoos were a bit too much for her,” says Gamzee, and he sounds fuzzy too. Eyes closed, you press your head against his shoulder and wait for the dizziness to pass. “She’ll be all right…”

Wait…

Chucklevoodoos?

“Gamzee?” Ngh, your head is still swimming and your voice comes out embarrassingly weak. “What are… chucklevoodoos?”

“Just a thing Dad does, fucks with your head but it ain’t nothing more than bad dreams.” He brushes the hair out of your face. “It’ll be gone soon.”

“Mrmmmm…” You blink slowly, and sure enough, the fear is draining out of you. Yeah, it was creepy in there, but it was just a big troll telling nasty stories. Nothing worse. “I think…I’m okay… I can sit up…”

Gamzee lets you push yourself up right on his lap, though he keeps a hand on the small of your back. Tavros is propped against a rock next to you, watching with his broad forehead wrinkled in concern. “Are you, uhh, all right?”

“M’fine,” you say, managing a smile. You are, mostly…

“That’s good,” says Tavros, and he smiles a little too. Looking up at Gamzee, you see he’s got that same intense expression fixed on Tavros again…

Well, he’s not being subtle about it at all, is he?

“Gamzee…” you say, “I’m tired, I want to go home…”

“Sure thing, baby girl,” he says, and sets you on your feet. Instinctively you check your phone and it’s not that late, only around ten… but you’re so tired…

The cold of the night air wakes you up enough that you can hang on to Gamzee as he runs you home, but not much more. When he sets you down at your doorstep you’re hazy, robotic, unable to process really anything.

“Good night, sister,” says Gamzee, gently chucking you under the chin. Eyes all but closed, you smile slightly.

“You too,” you manage.

Gamzee chuckles, ruffles your hair, and slinks off into the night. You keep standing in the doorway, propped against the frame, for a little longer until you realize that you have to go to bed. It takes all your remaining energy to change into pj’s and brush your teeth, and the instant you hit the sheets you are fast asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

Normally you would throw yourself off a cliff before you found yourself in Cal’s monstrosity of a cherry red Chevy. But here you are, in the passenger seat with your body angled as far away from him as possible, as you drive down the I-15. It’s twilight; outside the orange glow of electric street lamps, the land is purple-grey-blue.

 

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]  at 7:13 pm

TT: Roxy.

If it weren’t for Nepeta and Gamzee, you wouldn’t even be here. Cal’s driving, of course, and in the backseat is Nepeta and his shotgun. Nepeta is buckled firmly in place, staring blankly out the window. You wish you had some way of communicating with her that wouldn’t make Cal flip his shit; at the moment telepathy seems like the only option.

TG: go away dirk  
TG: im busy

Cal had pestered you again, mostly to gloat about his upcoming Gamzee hunt. You’d never been angry at him like that, so furious that it was almost exhilarating. Not only was he completely ignoring Nepeta’s hurt but now he was rubbing it in your face about how he was going to shoot down Gamzee, and you didn’t know what you were going to do to stop that but it sure as hell wouldn’t help for you to sit at home and mope. So you (rudely) pestered him back, insisted you were going with him, grabbed your rifle (you have visions of whacking Cal upside the head with it) and driven over to his house.

TT: Look, I’m sorry about brushing you off the other day.  
TT: I’ve been dealing with a lot lately, and it’s kind of stressing me out.  
TT: Besides, you do have a habit of crying wolf.  
TG: fuck you too

If Dirk was the biggest of your problems you’d be ecstatic. But no – Nepeta’s grieving her moirail with no one but her asshole owner around, and said asshole owner would like nothing better than to shoot your own moirail in the face. You don’t have the time or the energy to give him more than the pesterchum equivalent of a middle finger.

TT: Please, Roxy.  
TT: However I acted before, I am legitimately concerned for your safety right now.  
TG: shut  
TT: I’ve seen the news about that troll that was killed, and it seems clear to me that the culprit is your Gamzee.  
TG: the fuck  
TT: It’s obvious that the only way to prevent further killings is to do what I advised you to do weeks ago, and report him.  
TG: up

Cal drives like a maniac. Unsurprisingly. What’s surprising is that he has yet to make a creepy pass at you. He keeps glancing down at your phone, though.

TG: look  
TG: you had your chane to help when i asked for it  
TG: *chance  
TG: im not askin now  
TG: so leave me alonne  
TG: i cna handle this  
TT: And I’m concerned you can’t.  
TG: whoa  
TG: hey  
TG: your not my dad  
TG: your not my bf  
TG: your not even my godamnedx moiral  
TG: so why whould your concern even MATER  
TT: What’s a moiral?

Shit.

TG: nothin  
TG: just a rtoll thing  
TT: Oh God.  
TT: Roxy, PLEASE tell me you haven’t gotten yourself even deeper into this.  
TG: so what if i have?  
TG: its not your businesz

“Who is that?” asks Cal. He’s definitely watching you now, and smirking a little.

“My brother,” you say shortly. No way in hell are you discussing your family with Cal.

TT: I’m still worried about your safety.  
TT: And yes, I’m not your father or boyfriend or even your moiral, whatever that is.

“Older or younger?”

“Older.”

TT: But I am your brother.  
TT: A brother who, much as he fucks up, still loves you and cares about you very deeply and doesn’t want you getting hurt.  
TG: ow wow  
TG: im so touched

“Where –”

“Not now, Cal, okay?”

TG: sittin weepin in the car  
TG: so many etears fallin on my lap  
TG: *tears  
TT: Roxy, listen to me.  
TG: no dirk  
TG: YOU listen  
TG: i am a grown0asz woman and i do wat i want  
TG: *grown-ass  
TG: you need to respext that and le t me make my own chocisez  
TG: *choices  
TG: so leave me  
TG: the fuck  
TG: alone

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering  timaeusTestified [TT] at 7:46 pm

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] blocked  timaeusTestified [TT]

Grumbling, you return your phone to your pocket. Cal is full-out smirking now. “Family problems?”

“Yeah, and none of your business.” You glance in the rearview mirror; Nepeta still has her deadpan stare out the window, her hands clasped meekly between her knees. She’s wearing that heavy leather collar; her neck is chafed green. Biting your lip, you repress the urge to chew Cal out – it’ll probably just make things worse for all of you.

If you tilt your head you can see through the rear window to where Cal’s dogs, all fourteen of them, are loaded onto the back of his truck. Though all different shapes and sizes, they’re as mean as he is, and as ugly to boot. You can’t help imagining Gamzee being torn apart by the pack, too many even for him to take on. It makes you want to cry, or put Cal’s face through the windshield – either one.

“Hey, Nepeta,” you say softly, Cal be damned. “How are you?”

She blinks once. “Fine,” she says, monotone. And that’s it. She doesn’t even look in your direction.

You don’t have much time to worry about her, because soon Cal pulls over and parks on the side of the road. The sun’s below the horizon, now, and you can see the river on the other side of the road, gleaming ever so faintly.

“Everyone. Out.” Cal gets out of the truck and walks around to the back; with a frenzy of yapping and barking, the dog pack is released. You slide out of your own seat and open Nepeta’s door.

“How are you doing?” you ask her.

Nepeta just _looks_ at you, and she’s not so much sad as just…deadened. Empty. It makes your heart ache, not with the throbby intensity that it does for Gamzee but with a sharp sort of sadness. You want to do something – you reach out to hug her but Nepeta slides through your arms like water.

“Let’s go!” barks Cal, shotgun hefted against his shoulder. He’s got his fingers hooked through the collar of a savage-looking Doberman. “Lalonde. Follow me.”

You make a show of walking to him as sullenly as possible. Cal scowls at you, his dogs milling around him, Nepeta standing off to the side. “Yo, Cal – you got a plan?” you ask.

“Yes,” he says shortly, already striding off in the direction of the hills. You follow, accompanied by a tubby Rottweiler with a massive underbite. Soon you’re far from the highway, the sun fully set, the only light coming from the industrial-grade flashlight Cal has Nepeta carrying. It’s all you can do not to trip over your own feet. It’s not quiet at all, thanks to his pack.

Eventually you’re in the foothills. Cal sighs and swings his gun of his shoulder, aiming a half-hearted kick at one of his dogs. “Pet tells me this is where the feral troll likes to make his rounds.”

You find it vaguely disquieting that you have no way of knowing if it’s true. “So, now what, we just…wait?”

“More or less.” And Cal points his gun directly at you, cocking the trigger with a sharp click that reverberates in the night air.

Cold sweeps over you. You can feel prickling on your temples and the back of your neck. “Cal…” No sound comes out; you can barely get air through your lungs.

Nepeta’s set the flashlight down at his feet;  the light flickers as dogs pass back and forth in front of it. Lit from below Cal’s face is skull-like, terrifying. “This troll. He knows you?”

Your throat is constricted, you still can’t talk. You nod.

“Are you ‘friends?’ ”

What else can you do but nod again?

“So if you scream. Will he come?”

“I don’t know,” you manage to say.

He raises his gun slightly so the barrel is pointing between your eyes. “Scream.”

All you can manage is a sort of squeak. You don’t want to call Gamzee, you don’t want him to come, you want him to stay far away from Cal and his gun and his dogs.

Cal narrows his eyes and puts his finger on the trigger. “I said. Scream. Unless you think a gunshot will call him quicker.”

He’s going to shoot you, and you won’t be able to help Gamzee or Nepeta ever again. You clench your trembling hands into fists, imagine putting a brick to Cal’s skull, open your mouth and _scream._

You’ve always been proud of your ability to imitate a siren. Between you and Janey you could blow the eardrums of anyone within a fifteen-yard radius. This scream is klaxon and bloodcurdling – it echoes off the hills and makes some of the dogs whimper.

Not until you’re out of breath do you stop. Your ears are ringing slightly. Cal cocks his head, listening, but if he can hear anything over the panting of the dogs, he doesn’t let on. “Pet,” he barks. “Anything?”

Nepeta is standing just outside the circle of light. Light glancing off her eyes like a cat’s, she raises her head and sniffs the air. “No,” she says quietly. “Nothing.”

“Huh.” Grunting, Cal looks back to you. “Again.”

Filling up your lungs, you belt out another scream. Your throat is starting to hurt. Once again, there is silence broken only by the snuffling of his dogs as Cal and Nepeta listen.

“Louder,” orders Cal.

“I’m screaming as loud as I can,” you snap.

“Wanna bet?” says Cal, and he lowers the gun to point at your leg.

Oh, how you hate him. How you really, really hate him.

The silence after your third scream is ringing. Your breathing is both very loud and very shaky and you clamp your lips shut, feeling sick.

A light breeze teases your hair…

Nepeta hisses and the dogs start barking furiously, all focused on the hills behind you. You whip around, heart pounding in your chest oh God oh God oh _God_ –

“What up, motherfuckers,” you hear someone growl.

And then something _huge_ leaps over you and you scream and duck because not only that but Nepeta and all fourteen dogs have sprung towards you vicious and snarling and –

There’s a great roar and suddenly half the dogs are sprawled on the ground. Cal’s got his teeth bared in shock and anger and is holding the gun and and there is an UNGODLY medley of snarling and barking and shrieking –

Uncovering your head, you look over and see Gamzee, roaring furiously, fending off the dogs with great swipes of his claws. Two are already on the ground for good, whimpering, and a third has a scarlet slice down his side. Nepeta is hovering, teeth bared, hands at chest level.

Gasping, you stand up – Cal’s pouring out a stream of invective, unwilling to shoot in case he hits one of his dogs – Gamzee bellows and seizes a dog around the neck and it just goes _limp_ –

“Pet! ATTACK!” roars Cal.

“GAMZEE!” you scream, just as a dog clamps its teeth around his tail. He yowls and twists around and Nepeta takes the chance to spring at him –

With a snarl he whips around and swipes her out of the air and she yelps, breaking her fall with a roll and somehow suddenly three more dogs are felled, the only ones left being big and brutish and smeared with purple blood.

“Ha!” Cal shouts, and his gun’s at his shoulder ready to fire and before you’ve realized what you’re doing you spring at him, reaching for the gun and the blast that goes off deafens you but it goes wide of the snarling fighting mass of troll and dog.

“Bitch! Get off me!” Cal tries to swing his gun at you but you cling to his arm like grim death itself, digging your nails in until you know it hurts. “OFF!”

And then Gamzee _laughs._

It’s not the mirthful honks you’ve heard before, it’s a horrible dark gurgling chuckle that oozes malice and pain to come and you look over and he’s surrounded by fourteen canine corpses, splattered with red and indigo and he is facing Nepeta and he is _smiling._

“Come at me,” he snarls, and Nepeta hisses in response. “I said, COME AT ME, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Her shriek is a sound of pure rage that drowns out your inarticulate shout. Her legs bunch and she springs forward, reaching for Gamzee with clawed fingers and –

He simply grabs her wrist. He GRABS HER WRIST and throws her to the ground and somehow her claws have drawn bloody lines across his face and –

There is a dull godawful crack and she is motionless against the dirt.

“NO!” you scream and Cal shakes you off – you hit the ground and Cal’s got his gun to his shoulder but Gamzee’s already running, disappearing into the night and Cal fires but you pick yourself up just in time to see Gamzee vanish completely.

For a little while the only sound is your and Cal’s heavy breathing and the whimpering of injured dogs.

“Fuck,” he says at last, resting the butt of his shotgun on the ground. You ignore him, getting to your hands and knees and slowly crawling over to where Nepeta is…dear, sweet, precious Nepeta…

The flashlight is still on the ground, casting its yellow light over the dust and the sprawled form of Nepeta. Olive liquid is slowly seeping into the ground around her head…

“No…” The tears are forming, swelling in your eyes, as you gently turn her over. Her head lolls against your arm, eyes half-closed, rivulets of blood running down her face. A lump rises in your throat and you cradle her… she’s so slight, nothing but wiry muscle and bone…

“Well,” says Cal. You look, tears running down your cheeks, to see he’s got his gun against his shoulder again. “That’s that.” And he starts to walk away.

“That’s it?” You’re shaking with rage and grief and Nepeta’s blood is on your hands and Gamzee is in the dark, wounded and all the screaming and crying in the world won’t change anything. “You’re going to just – _leave?_ ”

He looks down at you, impassionate. “Yeah.”

You don’t have anything left. You just hold Nepeta and look up at him.

Cal blinks down at you, then turns on his heel and walks away. He takes the flashlight with him, leaving you in the dark.

Slowly your eyes adjust to the starlight. You are surrounded by void, the emptiness of the land and the flat blackness of the hills and the vast distant canopy of the sky. There’s nothing to anchor you, not even the dead girl in your arms, and bit by bit the pieces start to flake off and drift away…

One gasp follows hard on another, and then you’re hunched over, crying like you never have before, hoarse, desperate sobs that pull through you and the tears are hot and your hands are twisted in Nepeta’s tank top and it won’t stop, it’ll never stop, you can’t do this anymore…

“Over there!” someone shouts, and an angry hiss makes you gasp and clutch Nepeta to your chest. Twisting around, you try and see who’s coming –

Three dark figures run up to you. Well, two are dark. The one in front is giving off light, speckles of fuschia bioluminescence brushed across her shoulders and cheeks. You can see horns…

“Roxy? Are you Roxy?” Her voice is smooth, unfamiliar. “I’m Ariela, I’m part of Gamzee’s family, we traced him here.”

“He’s gone,” you say, gulping. “He ran off…”

“Yes,” she says sharply. “And he was wounded.”

What’s one more prick among the thousand thorns in your heart? “Yeah.”

She paces past you, snarling. “What happened?” The other two trolls circle around, bending over the dogs – there’s a yelp, and the whimpering dies away.

In as little words as possible, you recount the night’s events. Ariela crouches in front of you, her glow faintly illuminating Nepeta’s face. “We’ll take care of her,” she says softly, brushing hair off Nepeta’s forehead. “We’ll give her a burial with our other dead. She will rest peacefully, don’t worry.”

“ ‘Kay,” you manage, and then another sob runs through you.

Ariela lightly touches your hand – her fingers are cool. “Where did Gamzee go?”

“I – I don’t know…”

“We’ll find him,” says  Ariela, standing. She looks down at you, eyes shining dimly. “Leave Nepeta – the others will look after her.”

Gently, you lay Nepeta down and bend over to kiss her forehead. “Okay,” you say, standing, tears rolling down your cheeks. “Will – will you track Gamzee?”

“If I have to,” says Ariela. In the dark her voice is smooth, strong, melodious – restrained. She’s angry, you realize. “But you’re his moirail. Wouldn’t he go to you?”

That’s the last thing he should do. Your world isn’t right for him. “He left me…”

“He left here,” corrects Ariela. “Which direction do you live?”

Your internal compass is screwed – you need the faint glow of distant lights to locate Cascade. “There.”

“That’s where his trail seems to lead,” says Ariela. “You’re his moirail. His home is where he’s safe. Would he go there?”

“I – yes? Maybe? I don’t know…” The idea of seeing Gamzee in your yard like nothing has happened is both a relief and a terror, and Ariela in her surety is unsettling as well, and you just have _nothing left to give._ “I don’t know…”

Ariela takes your hand, her grasp smooth and firm. “Then let’s find out.”


	16. Chapter 16

Ariela passes through the night like a ghost with you clinging onto her back. Finding Gamzee’s trail was easy for her (she said she had blood to trace, as well as scent – you squeaked and clung a little too tightly to her). After that, there was nothing except the rushing of wind and the steady flow of air in and out of her lungs.

Gamzee’s trail does indeed bring you to Cascade, skirting carefully around the circle of civilization. Your farm is shadowy – you forgot to turn the lights on before you left. Ariela drops you at the barbed wire fence.

“Is he here?” you ask. It’s too far, too dark for you to tell.

Raising her head, Ariela sniffs the air. With a little more light, you can see her features – they’re strange, alien, overlarge eyes and flattened nose and fin-like ears. If you had the time or energy, you’d wonder why she joined Gamzee’s band of misfits, and how she ended up way out here. “Yes,” she says. “He’s here.”

All right.

This is it.

“Thank you,” you say absently. All of you is focused into the dark where Gamzee is…

She doesn’t answer; she doesn’t really need to. Carefully, you climb through the fence and start walking towards your house. You’re shaking; you honestly don’t know how you’re going to act towards Gamzee. Scream at him? Cry? Shut him out entirely?

You think you won’t know until you’re face-to-face with him.

As you approach the barn, the motion sensors activate the outside light and – there’s Gamzee, leaning against the barn wall. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he was just waiting casually.

But then his head whips around and he’s staring right at you. The electric light casts his face in harsh detail – you’re close enough to where you can see his pinprick pupils, the beads of indigo blood, the tangled strands of hair stuck to his forehead. In fact, the entire left side of his head is purple, hair flattened and slick. His left ear’s been chewed to shreds.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Gamzee doesn’t even try to talk; he just looks at you. There’s silence except for the chirping of summer crickets and you’re lost, you don’t know what you’re feeling but everything hurts…

At last his lips crack open. “Baby girl…” he rasps. One of his lower canines is shattered.

Something inside you trembles and you rush towards him and you are caught up in his arms, engulfed in his embrace, and there’s blood of three colors smeared between you but it doesn’t matter, _it doesn’t matter._

“Oh, my girl, my baby girl,” he groans, and you sob and clutch him tighter. But the movement makes him hiss and flinch, and you realize your hands are running over torn skin.

“Sorry!” You jump back, appalled – oh, God, he’s a mess, cuts and gashes everywhere, his tail bit through nearly to the bone. The front of your shirt is more purple than white. “Oh, God, Gamzee – hold on –” You’ve got a first aid kit for the horses in the barn. “Just stay still, I’ll get you fixed up, don’t you worry –”

As you unlock the side door and duck in, you hear his weary chuckle. “Ain’t going nowhere without you, sister…”

Once inside, you grab the medical kit (kit being a glorified term for a plastic toolbox full of bandages and disinfectant and whatnot) and hurry back to him. He’s gingerly slumped against the wall, if one can slump gingerly – his muscles must be stiffening by now and everything will be hurting and aching and stinging –

He’s in pain. You can see it in his face.

“It’ll be okay,” you murmur, setting the kit down. “Take your shirt off.” It’s a tattered bloody mess, there’s no point even trying to save it. Gamzee doesn’t even remove it properly, just kind of shreds it off as you fill a bucket with water.

Oh, honey… He’s got the shakes, you can see them. “Shh, shh, it’s all right,” you say, bringing the bucket over and laying a hand against his cheek. “I’m here.”

Gamzee lets out a shuddering sigh but his gaze is all over the place, darting from shadow to shadow. You bend, soak a washcloth in the water, reach up to begin the careful process of washing blood from his broken skin. There’s so much of it…

Soon the water in your bucket is dark and murky. Gamzee, slumped on the ground, remains quiet and still through the whole process, even when you’re dealing with his tail and the deep gash along his ribs. Your stomach very nearly turns at the injuries, but you manage to keep your composure so that when you get to his face your hands are steady.

“How’re you doing?” you ask quietly, a fresh cloth in your hands.

He gives you the tiniest shrug, eyes half-shut and distant. There’s a painful knot in your heart to accompany the cold weight in your gut, but you don’t say anything. You just gently dab at the cuts on his face, clean the blood from his hair as best you can. His ear… there’s hardly anything left. The more indigo you wash away, the more evident it becomes that like his t-shirt, there’s no way to save it.

You really, really wish you had some heavy-duty painkillers. Or better yet, painkillers that you knew worked with troll physiology.

“Gamzee? I’m – I’m sorry, hon, but this is going to have to come off…”

“Huh?” He turns his head towards you, voice and expression dead. “What is?”

You look at him sympathetically – this is going to hurt so bad, you’re so sorry – “Your ear. What’s left of it.”

He just kind of looks at you, then shrugs and turns his head away again. “Motherfucking do it, then.”

For the first time there’s emotion under his voice, and it’s…anger. You swallow hard, cloth clutched in your hands. “Is – is that okay?”

“Yeah.” He sighs, eyes pinched shut. “Just do it.” 

You don’t have any knives, just a pair of heavy scissors. Taking a deep breath, you position yourself, planning – you don’t want to make more cuts than necessary. What you’re about to do is terrifying, the thought of physically harming Gamzee all but undoing.

But what must be done, must be done…

Steeling yourself so your hands don’t shake, you prepare the shears – you can see what to do, two quick cuts that should leave him with enough undamaged ear flap to protect the inner ear. “Ready?” you ask. You’ve got antiseptic, bandages, you think you know what to do…

His eyes snap open, staring straight ahead, and his jaw is set like steel. “Do it.”

You hold the scissors open, poised to cut, but you can’t, you can’t, you physically can’t –

“I said MOTHERFUCKING _DO IT!_ ”

Gritting your teeth, you do.

Gamzee hisses unmercifully, his neck and back rigid, but you focus on your task and it’s done, the ragged flesh is gone and you press a cloth to the wound, stopping the flow of blood.

“There,” you croon, meaningless syllables in the night, rubbing your free hand over his shoulder. “There, there, it’s over…”

The muscles in his back relax and unknot like taught wires being released, and a low exhale slips over his teeth. Looking down, you can see deep furrows in the ground where his claws have contracted and cut the soil.

From there, it’s almost a relief to clean the wound, to bandage it by taping a pad of gauze over where his ear used to be. And from there you just move from wound to wound, cleaning and bandaging.

It feels like it takes you hours; it definitely takes all your supplies. But at last, when the moon is in a new place in the sky, when your fingers are all but numb and your legs want to give way, Gamzee is in a clean, bandaged state.

“Well,” you say. If you didn’t know better, you’d say you were a little lightheaded. “That’s the best I can do…”

Gamzee glances down at himself, surveying, and then really meets your eyes for the first time. “It’s motherfucking miraculous, sister,” he says gently, and tenderly brushes a lock of hair out of your face.

That one touch turns every wire holding you in place to jelly and you whimper. Gamzee cradles your cheek in his hand, rough fingers brushing over your skin, and he slowly folds you against his chest. This time it’s not the quick urgency of your earlier embrace, it’s a sweeping movement like calm waves on a beach.

“Baby girl,” he croons, his voice vibrating through his chest and you, “there ain’t many true miracles in my life but you are one…”

“No.” The day you are a miracle is the day giant meteors will destroy Earth. “I’m not, I’m really not…”

“Shhhh, yes you are,” says Gamzee, rocking you slightly. His thumb brushes against the small of your back. “You motherfucking saved my life…”

You’re too tired to argue. You just slump against him and let your eyes close and he doesn’t stink of blood nearly as much as earlier but you can still smell it, metallic in your nostrils and roof of your mouth, and you curl your fingers into fists against his chest. Gamzee starts to speak and then hisses in pain – you look up to see his face scrunched in discomfort.

“Gamz?” You reach up to gently stroke his cheek. “Where does it hurt?”

“Where?” His eyes snap open purple-orange and he looks down at you. “Where? It hurts everywhere, it hurts all over and the worst is the MOTHERFUCKING PAIN IN MY HEART…”

“Shoosh…” You stand on tiptoe to kiss his jaw, gently rub his chest above his heart. “It’ll be okay, honey, it’ll be okay…”

He just _snarls,_ staring out over your head, chest heaving, and then something inside him _breaks_ and he just kind of collapses around you. You hold Gamzee close, running your fingers through his coarse tangles, and hum tonelessly…

“It ain’t my fault,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “I didn’t mean to kill her, she was so little, I weren’t up and meaning to do it…”

“Gamzee…” You ache for him, partly because he’s lying – you saw how he killed Nepeta, every single movement was deliberate.

“It was that motherfucker what calls himself her owner,” Gamzee growls, low and vicious. “He made her do it, he attacked me, it’s all his fault…”

“Shhh…” you say, rubbing an undamaged part of his back. There is a time for accountability, and it is not right now… you’re both exhausted, both hurting…

You know what needs to be done.

“C’mon,” you say, pulling out of the hug but taking one of his hands in both of yours. “We need sleep. Both of us.”

Gamzee just looks at you, somewhere in between begging puppy and starving wolf. You start to pull him towards the house, but he resist. “What?” he asks warily.

It’s just one more wound to add to the pile that he doesn’t trust you completely, still thinks you might betray him. “Inside,” you say, rubbing a thumb over his scraped knuckles. “To sleep. You’re staying with me tonight, I don’t want you running around the way you are…”

His eyes run over you, your house, the back door. He’s thinking, lower lip caught on one chipped fang, and when he finally gives you a tiny nod _yes_ you nearly sag with relief and exhaustion.

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s get you inside.”


	17. Chapter 17

… groaning, you shift slightly and you’re on the floor, why were you sleeping on the floor? Oh, right, because Gamzee’s too big for the couch and you weren’t about to take him into your bedroom (not that you think anything would happen, but that’s just not something you’re emotionally up for right now).

Gamzee…

Where’s Gamzee?

Heart pounding, you sit up among the pile of blankets and pillows. He was there, he was lying right next to you as you fell asleep, but now there is nothing but an empty space where he should be. You look wildly around the dark room and something catches your eye – what’s on the wall, oh God what’s on the wall –

It’s…writing?

You scramble to your feet and hurry over. Gamzee has pushed aside the TV and taken down two paintings (they are carefully propped against the wall) to make room for his message. He’s swiped it onto the wall with some dark liquid – you really hope it’s not his blood but you have a feeling it is – and his handwriting is large and childish. You wonder where he learned to write in the first place…

 

_IM SORRY SISTER_

_I AINT MEENING TO HURT NO ONE BUT I GOTA GIV WATS DOO_

_GIV A MOTHERFUCER WAT HE DESERVES_

_IF I AINT RETURNING_

 

There is something smeared out, and under it…

 

                        _< >_

_MEERACULS_

_:O)_

Something strange and tremulous comes to life in your stomach as you read what he wrote. _Give what’s due…_ you’re not sure what he’s talking about but you think…

Gamzee’s voice rasps inside your head. _He made her do it, he attacked me, it’s all his fault…_

“No,” you squeak.

You think you know exactly where he is.

He can’t have left that long ago – the fingertip you smudge against the writing comes back moistened and dark. Shoes, jacket, keys all seem to be in opposite corners of the house and the darkness isn’t helping either. But you get yourself together and all but throw yourself outside to get to your car.

The little clock on your dashboard says it’s 3:28 in the morning so you don’t bother with stop signs, you don’t bother with traffic lights, you just drive to Cal’s house as fast as you think you can.

You’re not sure what you’re expecting when you pull up in front of his ridiculous mansion but to see it dark and quiet, nothing moving, is somehow not it. You get out of the car and stand on the sidewalk what do you do what do you do –

_BRAKABRAKABRAKABRAKA –_

You shriek and jump because that was machine gun fire that was _fucking machine gun fire_ _WHY THE FUCK IS THERE MACHINE GUN FIRE?_ Cal’s house is separated from his garage by a bit of alley with a gate and you vault the gate and run around to the backyard and –

The first thing you see is Gamzee, crouched on the ground. There’s dark liquid spattered all over him and when he looks up at you more of it is dribbling out his mouth –

“Gamzee!” Throwing yourself to your knees beside him, you take his face in your  hands and you’re almost certain that’s blood leaking from his mouth and nostrils and he can’t seem to focus on you at all. “Gamzee, Gamzee, honey, oh God, oh Jesus –”

“Ahem.” Cal doesn’t actually clear his throat, just sort of says it, and you look up to see him standing on his back porch, automatic rifle in hand. “I see. You have found the scene of my conquest.”

“You _shot_ him!” you scream at Cal – Gamzee’s trembling, his face bumps against your neck and he’s shaking – “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Gamzee’s got his face pressed into the hollow between your neck and shoulder and you loop an arm around his shoulders, pull him close to you, try not to think about how cold he feels and how much of his weight you’re supporting.

Cal looks down at you triumphantly, tinted orange by the light of the street lamps. “He was going to attack me!” he announces. “I acted. In self-defense!”

You don’t have words, you just hold Gamzee and stare up at Cal as your world falls to pieces. Smirking, Cal sets down his gun against the porch railing and walks down the back stairs towards you. “I warned you. I warned you not to get attached! Now you will just have to suffer the consequences of your actions.”

The way Gamzee’s breath is rasping and gurgling has you really fucking scared –

“But maybe it’s good! Maybe now. That the troll is out of the way. You will have more attention for me!”

You cannot believe your ears.

“What?” Your voice is constricted, barely audible. Something like a shaky growl has started in Gamzee’s throat.

Cal stands over you, grinning and victorious. “I have had my eye on you. For quite some time! While your bodily proportions are less than desired, your feisty demeanor and disregard for convention have convinced me that I would like to get to ‘know’ you.” His grin widens into a leer, and you feel nauseous. “Since you seem to have a penchant for bestiality, I am quite the step up –”

There is a vicious snarl and suddenly Gamzee has launched himself at Cal and with a thud they hit the ground, Gamzee crouched on Cal’s chest with his teeth bared, dark blood running down the lower half of his face. He places his giant hands on either side of Cal’s head and you have the satisfaction of seeing a second of fear in Cal’s eyes before –

Gamzee twists his hands sharply and there is a sickening crunch.

You and Gamzee stare at each other – his eyes are wide, his face slack – and then he just kind of crumples over Cal’s dead body.

“Gamzee!” You scramble to him, with a heave manage to roll him onto his back – oh God, there’s holes all through his chest _Jesus_ – “Oh God oh fuck oh God –”

Somehow he manages to raise a hand and clumsily pat your cheek, cutting through all your babble. You hold his hand to your face and he mirrors the gesture, pressing your hand to his face – your palm is slick with blood…

“Don’t –” The tears are coming, clogging your throat, your eyes, your nose – “don’t, don’t, please –” You’re so scared, your heart is thudding in your chest, you’re so so scared –

“Baby girl…” He’s barely audible, the horrid rattling of his breath so much louder than his voice. “Rox –”

Something like a cough convulses through him and his face is twisted in pain, his claws digging into your skin and you clutch desperately at him,  trying to hold on don’t let go, don’t let him go –

Don’t –

He chokes and arches and then everything about him just…sort of…settles…

You are shaking all over, and your breathing sounds unnaturally loud in your own ears. “…Gamzee?”

It is very quiet.

He doesn’t move.


	18. Chapter 18

The TV is just meaningless chatter, white noise to drown out the earsplitting silence inside your own head. You are curled up in your armchair in your last clean pair of sweats; at the bottom of the pile of clothes by the washing machine is a shirt stained with purple that won’t wash out. You’re not sure, but you think the last person you talked to was Sydney who helps clean the stable and take out the soiled straw on Wednesday.

It’s Friday.

With a sigh, you shift to get more comfortable, working your way towards the horizontal. At some point your stomach will be painfully empty and you will work up the energy to drift over to the kitchen and eat something; later, maybe, you will go to bed instead of falling asleep on the couch. You may even glance at your phone and all the Pesterchum notifications that have accumulated…

_Ding-dong._

The sound of the doorbell  jars you out of your stupor. You don’t know who it is; maybe a parent isn’t content with complaining about cancelled riding classes via phone and has come to do it in person.

They can fuck off, you think, and look back to the TV.

_Ding-dong._

If you ignore them, maybe they’ll think you’re not at home. You keep your attention unfocused on the TV, but whoever it is doesn’t seem to want to let you not-watch in peace…

_Ding-dong-ding-dong._

“Go away,” you mumble.

 _Ding-dong._ “Roxy?”

You know that voice.

You get to your feet and stumble to the door and open it and – and there’s Dirk, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the sun glinting off those stupid pointy shades of his and – and –

 _“Roxy,_ ” he says, and he sounds like his heart is breaking.

Everything you’ve been holding back for the past too many days comes bursting through and you throw yourself at Dirk, clinging, and he holds you tight, gentle like Gamzee but warmer and bulkier, and when his hand brushes across your back there is no accompanying rasp of claws.

“I’m sorry,” he keeps saying, as you press yourself against him and your tears leak into his shirt. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, I’m sorry –”

You don’t say anything, just hold him tighter. After a while, he falls silent as well, though every so often he rubs a hand over your shoulders. You can hear Dirk’s heart thudding in his chest.

“Do you know,” you say at last, “that if Cal had lived they’d have charged him with animal cruelty? Not even manslaughter!”

“I know,” says Dirk gently.

“I hate people,” you sob.

He sighs and tightens his arms around you, their pressure far more comforting than anything he could say. And for once, Dirk seems to know that talking won’t help; it’s not until much later, after he’s cleaned up the house and put his bag in the guest room and made you a hot meal does he sit you down on the couch and have you tell him everything, right from the day Gamzee appeared in your backyard. It hurts, of course, and you could pull out a bunch of cheesy metaphors like pulling a thorn our or taking a bandaid off or combing through snarled hair but that implies that the pain would lead to something better, something calmer, and it doesn’t. It just hurts different, going from pain that’s all swollen and tangled and curdled to pain that just kind of aches all throughout you. You’re no stranger to pain and grief but this is different because it’s not just about Gamzee dying, it’s about how no one cares, how there’s not even a pretense of sending condolences, how they wouldn’t let you have Gamzee’s body so there won’t even be a funeral. It’s about how the one person who really understood you isn’t even a person to most of the world.

But Dirk listens. He listens, and what is even more wonderful, he doesn’t give you any bullshit about the SPCA or taking his advice. He just nods his head and says he understands, and promises that in a few days, when you’re feeling a little better, he has something to show you that he thinks will help. You don’t think anything can, but there’s something different about Dirk so you try, for his sake, to hope just a little.

After all, who knows.

You might just get a miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's wondering if this fits into the whole UFUT-verse... well, that's up to CeruleanCynic to decide (if she's even aware of this fic XD) I left Dirk's actions deliberately vague so it could go either way.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


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